


BIND

by AManCalledAman



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16298678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AManCalledAman/pseuds/AManCalledAman
Summary: Remy Meunier is not the man he says he is. He's a liar, he's a thief, and he's a killer. In spite of all that, he's trying to be a better person.Specter is a monster. Like Remy, he's killed people, but unlike Remy, he has no intention of stopping. His methods are cruel and unusual, and no one seems able to catch him.Remy is determined to change that. He has no other choice.It's what his brother would have wanted.





	1. Identification 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to BIND, also known as A Tale of Brotherly Love. I have several reasons for writing this story, the foremost being a desire to do something a little different. I'm a huge fan of Wildbow, the setting of Parahumans especially, and like several other members of this community (like Zacatigy, The_Incorruptible, Xaiya and keira), I have a desire to expand the world the author has created for us through parallel stories and original characters. As such, I chose to focus on another part of the U.S. (Philadelphia, rather than New York, San Francisco, or Denver), in which BIND and several other fics I have planned shall take place. While I can't yet promise I'll write them all, I am vowing to myself to finish this story, at the very least.
> 
> BIND itself is not your typical Worm fic. While it follows a parahuman and deals with them frequently, the story is more akin to a detective novel than a superhero one. Specter is essentially a serial killer, and the main character is someone dead set on finding him. A good portion of the narrative will be focused on interviewing witnesses and uncovering clues. That said, it's also character heavy rather than action. Not that it won't have its exciting moments.
> 
> The main character is in his twenties and prone to swearing relatively often. If it bothers you, I'm honestly sorry and hope you'll come back to read this someday. There should be no more significant triggers, however, other than the typical blood, death, and violence. In the event a chapter ends up more worrisome than expected, I will make sure to start it with the appropriate trigger warnings. A good rule of thumb is you shouldn't read this story if Worm or Ward is too much for you. If you can handle the source material, I can't see why you wouldn't be able to handle this.
> 
> For now I'll be posting one chapter every Sunday. At the time of me posting this, I'm nearly finished with the ninth chapter. If anyone is interested in being a beta reader you can send me a private message on this website or Discord (Amanuensis#0685). Which reminds me; shout out to Cauldron for getting me into Worm fan fiction to begin with, as well as broadening my understanding of the paraverse and helping me build various elements of my world and characters. I doubt I could have accomplished what I have so far without their community.

* * *

**Identification 1.1**

No matter how many times I saw it, Richard Gaines’ death left me reeling with the need to vomit.

After watching the video for the sixth time I figured out how to keep the bile from bursting out of my mouth. After the thirteenth, I learned how to keep a straight face in spite of the strong, acidic taste that filled it. One-hundred-and-eighteen viewings later, however, I still found it impossible to keep my stomach from churning out of sheer disgust.

It just wasn’t right.

Wasn’t natural.

And naturally, a cape was to blame.

People were horrified. I was horrified, and I didn’t even have access to the original live broadcast; just a second hand recording made by some hockey fan’s cell phone in all its pixelated glory.

Though it made my job harder, it was a good thing the news studio lost power and all their footage was corrupted within minutes of the incident.

Though the public was worried the PRT was controlling the media, I was glad that power outage extended to every household that was turned onto said news channel, and that their VCRs and DVRs had been scrambled as well.

The world was better off with nothing more than two minutes of low quality shaky cam to account for what happened.

Futilely taking a deep breath to steel myself, I rewound the video and hit play for the one-hundred-and-nineteenth time, all the while thinking to myself how I must be insane. Not only for willingly torturing myself like this, but because I honestly believed that if I just saw the video one more time I would discover another clue.

Unconsciously I squinted my eyes to black out everything but the phone screen in front of me.

It had been a beautiful day, all things considered. Above the scene the sky was a vivid blue with only a handful of fluffy white clouds scattered throughout it. Even the wind was gentle, judging by how the reporter’s long, black hair rested calmly on her shoulders. If there was any sign of it being cold, it was how the crowd was dressed behind her. Winter jackets, wool scarfs and knit hats galore. None of them shivered, though a few did have red faces, including the reporter. I suspected that in her case her face was mostly red because of makeup.

The reporter spoke, though her voice didn’t carry well over the recording. I chose to mute to the video, anyway, because of the fan’s vulgar commentary. I could tell he was more than a little drunk. Not that I blamed him, but at that moment he was much too loud for my liking.

Still, I had some talent reading lips and knew the story well enough that I was able to piece together what she was saying. The gist of it was a recap of the crime that put Duncan Gaines in prison, along with the announcement that his alibi had been finally verified by his lawyers, the police, and several medical professionals.

For a brief moment, a photograph of a college student cradling a baby girl flashed upon the TV before returning to the reporter’s smiling face.

After mentioning Duncan Gaines’ adoring fans, the camera panned over the crowd of people behind her, many of them wearing orange-and-white hockey jerseys with a black logo on the chest, or various hats in some combination of orange and black with the name Gaines, Flyers, or the number 67 printed on the front. They were all very cheerful, smiling and laughing among one another, and even breaking into the occasional Flyers victory chant.

Knowing how it would end, the moment of peace and the crowd’s excitement felt like a sickening contrast to the inevitable flurry of chaos.

Already I could feel my stomach churning.

“It goes without saying that not everyone is happy about the release of Philly’s star center,” I mumbled under my breath as I read the reporter’s lips.

That was her only line that came out clear enough for me to understand completely, other than her panicked shouts before the video would eventually cut out.

In response to the comment the camera revealed a second crowd, half as large as the first, though their voices were twice as loud. They weren’t exactly a mob since none of them were outwardly violent, but the signs they held and the expressions on their faces suggested otherwise. This group was centered around the family of Catherine Pierce; Duncan Gaines’ ex-mistress, and the woman he was arrested for killing last summer. Though his release meant he was officially proven innocent, the not-mob refused to accept it and was thus protesting vindictively.

Surprisingly, the Pierce family were the only people who stayed quiet. Rather than being enraged, they looked sorrowful. Even in 240p that much was obvious. Their faces were wet and swollen from crying. It took the gate beginning to open for the family to finally raise their hung heads.

If looks could kill, the glares they shot toward Duncan would have left his body in a blood ruin. But no.

That fate was reserved for his brother, Richard.

In the middle of a small road the two men stood, separated only by a rusty metal gate. Both were freakishly tall, though the man on the outside was skin and bones, while the one beyond the gate looked like he’d been chiseled from stone.

Richard, the skinny twin, was draped in an all-black suit that was so loose on him it could have been a robe. In retrospect, that should have been a signal of what was to come, but his wide smile was convincing enough to divert from his ominous choice in attire.

Duncan, on the other hand, wore a white suit with a blue shirt and orange tie. For a while I assumed the brothers had intended to wear opposite colors, though it never made much sense and I recently decided on another theory. In Duncan’s case, I bet him wearing white that day was meant to symbolize him re-entering the world in a clean state, while the blue and orange represented a new dawn in his heart.

Richard, however, was dressed for his own funeral.

Superficial differences aside, the brother’s faces were practically reflections of one another, other than a scar on Duncan’s left cheek and the tip of his chin. Even their smiles were the same, down to an uneven pair of front teeth. Considering Duncan’s job, that detail surprised me. I didn’t know much about hockey, but I did know how often the players got their teeth knocked out of them.

At that moment, the first strong breeze I’d seen stirred the Gaines brother’s lengthy blonde hair and flushed their cheeks. Both of them were pale, yet Duncan appeared to be a shade or two darker. That surprised me too since he was the one that spent a whole year in prison.

Whether it was the cold wind blowing in his face or the sight of his brother waiting with open arms, Duncan started to cry. Slowly the tears began as a dribble, but they quickly picked up speed and spilled over his taut lips, causing them to twitch. Even then, his smile remained, glistening in the light.

I felt my stomach lurch when Duncan hastened his pace. He didn’t exactly run into his brother’s arms, but he threw himself into Richard with enough force to almost knock him off his feet. The first time I’d seen it, I’d thought the moment touching. Now the only thing I felt was nausea.

That was the tipping point. The metaphorical stumbling over an edge. It took all of my concentration not to scrunch up my face or avert my eyes as my throat filled up with bile and my heart filled up with dread, but then I felt a hand clench my arm so hard that I couldn’t help but flinch in pain.

Careful to turn my phone over in my lap so no one could see what I was watching, I looked up to find the bus I was riding was suddenly full. Of course it wasn’t truly sudden, but that I’d been so absorbed in my phone that I never even noticed.

I’d have to make sure not to make that mistake again.

I didn’t bother turning around. Peripheral vision along with the half-dozen people I saw standing in the aisle informed me that all the seats were full. While most of the people standing held onto metal rails and rubber hand grips for balance, an old man in tattered clothes was using my arm for support, instead. I looked up at his rheumy eyes and found them staring down at me from underneath the brim of an olive drab hat that read World War II Veteran.

Fuck me, I thought as I realized that made me the kind of asshole who’s so caught up in their own bullshit that they don’t even bother to get up so a homeless veteran can sit down on a public bus in his stead.

My body reacted before the apology could escape my lips, legs trying to rocket me up from the seat and out of his way. To my surprise, the man was strong enough to force me back down into the seat and keep me there.

I felt a blaze of panic urge the animal part of me to lash out at the man and hit him, but thankfully I was able to suppress it long enough for the civilized person within me to accept he meant no harm. It took him tilting his head towards the seat beside me - where I had placed my luggage upon boarding the bus and promptly forgotten - for me to realize he just wanted me to move over. Without a word, I picked up the hard-shelled bag and my briefcase and slid to the left, placing the former on my lap and the latter on the ground between my feet.

It took a moment, but once the man was settled into his seat, I stretched a hand out for him to shake so I could properly apologize. I had to clear my throat to get him to notice, making me think his vision wasn’t that great, but when he finally did turn to face me and grabbed my hand I was again taken aback by his strength.

It wasn’t unusual in a powers sense, but something more mundane. Age and hunger both made his features gaunt, and there were other clues, like his rashy, patchy skin and his cold, swollen fingers, that told me he was very unhealthy Years spent living on the streets taught me how to recognize when a human body was about to give in completely. Not only did this man appear to pass the point of no return, he was still somehow strong enough to hurt me simply by clenching my hand.

For a brief moment I wondered if he recognized a homeless man in me, but a quick look at my lap reminded me what I was wearing; a clean, navy blue three-piece suit with a white shirt, purple tie, and shiny, brown dress shoes.

“Remy,” I said as soon as I noticed I was awkwardly holding to his hand in silence. “My name is Remy,” I clarified quickly, not wanting to rehash the last conversation I had about my unusual name.

“Lewis,” he said, voice gruff, before letting go of my hand. His eyes stayed fixated on my face, however, inciting a flash of paranoia that he did recognize who I really was, underneath all of this.

But no.

That was impossible.

Logic aside, I couldn’t shake the feeling. Nor could I stop myself from rambling on nervously.

“I hope you’re not mad at me,” I began. He cocked an eyebrow but let me continue speaking unabated. “I meant it when I said I was sorry. Did I keep you standing for long? It wasn’t intentional, I swear. Usually I’m not that oblivious, but I’m kind of new to the area. I can barely wrap my head around the public transit system. I can’t even say for sure where we are now.”

I wasn’t being entirely honest. Honestly it was rare for me to ever be honest, but it felt especially shitty to lie to Lewis in particular. Having a conscience really sucked sometimes.

Hoping that my last statement would cue for him to give me directions, I took in a deep breath. What he said instead surprised me enough to nearly choke on it.

“D'où êtes-vous?”

I could only guess the expression on my face. Dumbfounded, with an emphasis on dumb.

What were the odds that he spoke French?

For a couple awkward seconds I rushed to mentally translate the question and mull over my answer.

“Lyon,” I finally sputtered. “Or a small town close enough to the city to count. My parents and I fled to the U.S. after the first Behemoth attack. Thank God for that, considering everything that happened the second time. We stopped using French in the house after that - stirred up too many painful memories, know what I mean? - but I was old enough that the accent stuck with me. Fortunately,” I tacked on as an afterthought.

Lewis’ eyes widened at the mention of Behemoth, but by time I finished his face became utterly neutral, other than a slightly furrowed brow. Did I confuse him? I asked myself. Or does he just not believe me?

I nearly breathed a sigh of relief when he asked me, “Fortunately?”

Having practiced enough times to make it seem natural, I forced a laugh and gave him my best fake smile. “Growing up, it didn’t take long for me to figure out how much American curls love a boy with a foreign accent.”

Rather than question me further, the old man laughed, thought it quickly became a fit of hoarse coughing.

I waited nearly a minute for him to stop and catch his breath.

“Feeling under the weather?” I asked, desperate to change the subject to him rather than me.

He cleared his throat, then struggled to swallow what could have been a gallon of phlegm. “Pneumonia,” he said. “Just when I thought I survived the winter, too.”

Lewis’ tone suggested he was defeated, but not discouraged.

“I take it you don’t have much longer?”

I could have worded it better, probably, but I had a feeling he’d like it more if I just got to the point.

Thankfully I was right. The old veteran laughed again, only gentler. His subsequent coughing lasted half as long as before.

“Feels like it. Can’t say for sure. My last days on earth are worth too much for me to be wasting them away in some dodgy emergency clinic, waiting for a diagnosis. Lord knows I’ve spent enough time in hospital beds.”

This time I cocked an eyebrow of my own, prompting him to bend over and pull up his right pants leg. Underneath was a prosthetic limb, though it looked nothing like what I saw in the movies. Neither realistic nor robotic, it seemed to be home made. Barely more than a pair of thin, rusty pipes with a hinge in the middle and a rubber door stop fixed onto the bottom.

The rubber portion was just a bit too large for his sneaker, stretching out the rips in the collar to reveal that all the stuffing had fallen out, leaving only a dirty band of plastic in place to keep its shape. On his other foot he wore a cleat, black and blue while the sneaker was burnt orange, with the cleat’s entire tongue missing, as well as the top half of the left side.

“I can hardly imagine…” I began saying under my breath. After glancing up at his face, however, I realized Lewis wasn’t looking for sympathy. His shit-eating grin and the sheen of his eyes suggested a certain kind of pride. “Did you get that from the war?” I asked.

Somehow Lewis both laughed and coughed at the same time. It was short, almost a bark, and followed by a shake of his head. “This little thing? No. Not from the war. A motorcycle accident, long after I came back home. The only wounds I took away from my service were the kind that can’t be seen with your eyes. The same kind of wounds that makes a boy think he’s invincible and entitled since if he survives that, he should be able to survive anything else that life throws his way, and whatever he wants, he deserves, because he’s long since paid his dues.

Again, Lewis barked that half-laugh, half-cough.

“Thinking about it like that, I suppose the war did give this to me, in a roundabout way,” he finished, his grin bigger than before though his eyes seemed a bit sadder.

I frowned, but not only because I felt bad for Lewis. I frowned because I related to him. Though I’d never been to war, I’d seen my fair share of battles. I walked away from them a different person than I was before. More jaded. More flawed. Selfish. Like the motorcycle accident he just described, I’d hit a figurative wall. I’d crashed and I’d burned and despite all the time that’s passed since then, I was still caught in the wreckage.

Deep down, a part of me resented the old man. I had to work to suppress my anger and my envy. It was hard not to be upset when everyday, people lived through very traumatic experiences and got out with nothing but a physical injury to show for it.

Becoming a cape was just so God-damned worse.

Lewis was an alright guy. I could tell that much, and I really was trying to not fall into my old ways of behaving. Maybe he didn’t deserve whatever he wanted, but at the very least, the old veteran deserved to be treated with respect.

After glancing at the deep lines of his face, I decided the man deserved a meal, too.

Lewis’ expression hardened when he saw me reach a hand into my suit jacket, but he didn’t say a word as I removed a beat-up leather wallet from the pocket that was hidden there.

“If I didn’t have an important meeting to get to, I would take you to lunch myself. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to hear more about your life,” I lied, faking that smile I’d practiced for whole days in the mirror. My heart panged with guilt, but I felt it was best to let him feel like someone cares.

“You really don’t have to,” he said, jaw clenched as if he was holding back words. His tone of voice didn’t suggest he was angry, however. He even sounded grateful. But again, the way he creased his eyes made me think he was sad.

Disappointed, maybe.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. You might be surprised to hear this, but not that long ago I was homeless, too. It isn’t much. I wish I had more to spare. But if you’re smart - which I believe you are - then you should be able to make good use of it for the next week or so.”

Smiling, I handed Lewis a fifty-dollar bill. I was honestly pissed at myself for not having anything smaller, and a little pissed at him for sitting next to me in the first place, but on both counts I really had no one to blame but myself.

If I held on to the bill for too long when he tried taking it from me, it was because I had nothing left. If I didn’t want to sleep on the streets that night I’d have to steal again. That, or sell something. But everything I owned was in the bag between my feet, which, despite being rather large, was barely half full.

Hopefully being a good samaritan then would make up for whatever I’d need to do, later.

Lewis didn’t cry, though he must have choked up a little because he burst into a fit of coughing. Phlegm splattered the bill before he managed to cover his mouth with his elbow. I almost wanted to cry, seeing that. The bill was clean and crisp. Now it was soiled.

Using the skill I developed from watching Richard Gaines’ death on replay, I kept a straight face as the irritation simmered within me.

When he finally stopped coughing, Lewis wiped the bill on his filthy trousers, as if that would make it better.

“Thank you so much,” he said, enthusiastically.

“You’re welcome so much,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You said you were having trouble with the public transit system, and that you had a meeting to get to. Do you know what stop you’re supposed to get off at?”

About time, I thought.

“No idea,” I lied. “I was trying to look the bus map up online when you caught my attention.”

“Oh?” he asked. “It looked like you were watching the news.”

I swallowed. He’d seen that?

“Oh, yeah. A friend sent me a link and I clicked it accidentally. Not sure what it was about. Doubt it’s something I’d care much for. Anyway, do you think you can help me out with directions? I’m trying to get to the PRT Headquarters.”

“Uh oh,” he said.

“Uh oh?” I echoed.

Rather than answer, he looked up at the front of the bus. I followed his gaze and discovered that most of the bus had cleared out and the passengers who remained were different than the ones I’d seen before.

“Hate to break this to you, but you should have got off three stops ago. I’m sorry if I’m the reason why you missed it. Fuck. I’ll feel like shit if this makes you late for your meeting. Here, maybe you should take this back, for any trouble I’ve caused.”

Damn it. That was just my luck. Though the civilized part of me knew it wasn’t his fault, the animal part of me was snarling at him. I had to fight down the urge to rip the bill out of his hand. The real world might not be like the Maggie Holt books but I really believed in karma. If the rules of practitioners applied, I was straddling the line between frequently unfortunate and outright fucked.

I needed as much of the good stuff as I could get.

“No, it’s fine. The meeting doesn’t start for another hour.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a lie, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Lewis and I were talking for a while, and three stops could take a long time, depending.

“If I got off at the next stop how long would it take to walk there? I’d take another bus but it would probably be easier just to use my own two feet.”

Shit, I thought. Definitely not the best phrase to use when talking to a man with a missing leg.

“On a bad day? I could make it in thirty minutes, probably. For you? I’d guess no more than fifty at least,” he said, laughing.

It took all my self-discipline not to get mad right then. Though he had no way of knowing know he was rubbing salt in a wound, I was really hoping I wouldn’t end up late, after all.

I smiled, but not because I thought the joke was funny. His laughter caused him to start choking on phlegm, and I was glad for that minor revenge. Still, Lewis wasn’t a bad guy. If he’d started to suffocate I’d probably give him the heimlich. Not that it came to that, thankfully.

“Stop’s coming up now,” he said after getting ahold of himself. “Guess this is when we say goodbye.”

The way he said that last word almost sounded mournful.

Ah, I thought. So that’s why he was disappointed, earlier.

Wallet still in hand, I reached into a sleeve where a credit card would typically be and retrieved a business card. It was a simple design. Colored like eggshells, with a bold, romalian type. On it was my name, number, and a pair of letters.

“Remy Meunier,” he said in a well-practiced French accent. “And what’s this? P.I., as in Private Investigator?” he asked.

“More or less,” I said. “I don’t know if you own a phone, but if you’re in trouble or you’re looking for work, call that number and I may be able to help. I’m hoping the job I’m here for doesn’t take long - no offense - but I expect for it to last a week or two, at least. Just please don’t call me if you’re looking for more charity. I’m not so financially stable that I can consistently feed a mouth besides my own. If I was, I’d probably be married by now,” I faked a laugh, though it sounded hollow.

Hopefully he just interpreted that as me not being ready to tie the knot.

“I’ll try not to call unless it’s an emergency, then.”

As if by fate, his words were punctuated by squeaking brakes, and the bus eased to a halt.

Slipping my wallet into my jacket and grabbing my bag and my briefcase, I stood and stepped past the man, carefully measuring my pace so it didn’t look I was in a rush, then walked outside and waved as the bus took off.

As soon as it turned a corner, I checked my phone, and started running.

The time was 12:52, and I was supposed to be at the PRT HQ by 1:30.

While I ran, I not only had to deal with the wheels of my bag catching on cracks in the sidewalk and my briefcase slapping against my thigh, but also an upset stomach and the acidic bile that threatened to burst past my throat.

As I talked to Lewis, it turned out, the video kept on playing.

When I looked at my phone I didn’t expect to see Richard Gaines bloody, ruined body on the screen, but I did. Even in 240p, the scene was disturbingly gruesome.

It just wasn’t right.

Wasn’t natural.

And naturally, a cape was to blame.


	2. Identification 1.2

It took me running nearly a mile in a suit for me to realize that running was not my strong suit. Though I had a fit appearance it wasn’t because of exercise. I possessed the kind of body that no matter how much I ate, I would be as thin as a plank with a set of washboard abs. Not that I really ate that much to begin with.

I had a surprising amount of stamina, however. The only reason I took a break was because one of my dress shoes had fallen off along the way. Otherwise, I may have been able to run to the PRT HQ without stopping.

The main issue was my legs. In spite of them being long, my stride was awkward. Once I heard taller men were genetically superior runners, but after experiencing it myself, I had doubts. Either that was just a myth or I was an exception to the rule. Intuition told me it was the former.

My breathing, on the other hand, was remarkable. Without much thought I fell into a steady rhythm, and even my heartbeat remained exceptionally calm. Combined, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d been an athlete in a past life. With limbs like these, I could have been a professional swimmer.

There was still so much I didn’t know about myself, I realized, as I took my phone out and opened my favorite navigation app. Steer was meant to be used by drivers, but even on foot, I preferred using it over the default maps app because it informed me of changes in traffic patterns and the locations of street cops. Neither was very important right now, but it was a lifesaver whenever I went out at night. By now the app was simply more familiar to me.

As soon as I typed PRT the letters HQ and the building’s address popped up on the screen. For the most part, I’d been heading the right way. Problem was there was a large traffic jam between myself and the center of the city - which I didn’t need the app to see from where I was standing - but it did help me find a shortcut in the form of a square-shaped park just a few blocks to the south. If I was in a car, taking that route would have cut down my trip from eleven minutes to seven.

Glancing at the speed limit in the bottom left corner of the app, I automatically did the math in my head, adjusted my dress shoes one last time, and took off.

If I just ran for twenty more minutes I’d make it there with three to spare.

If only I’d been a Mover, I groaned internally.

I could only imagine how I looked, running as I was. Suit jacket unbuttoned with a tie thrown over my shoulder. One hand struggling to keep my briefcase and phone in front of me, the other dragging a hard-shelled luggage bag along behind me. If I had seen me, I’d probably judge the hell out of me. Thankfully nobody was around that I needed to worry about impressing.

The longer I ran, however, the more attention I drew. I passed underneath a bridge and tripped over a man sleeping under what looked like a camouflaged tarp. I must have startled him something fierce because as I ran back into the light, he shouted at my back and even made an effort of chasing me. Across the street, a small group of people my age were gathered around a picnic table outside a quaint cafe. I could still hear their laughter and the homeless man shouting as I rounded a corner.

Absently, I pondered if making their day better and ruining the homeless man’s nap would balance each other out, karma wise.

Considering the stares I got when I crossed the next street illegally, I figured I was still in the negative. Not that I believed I was an actual practitioner, or even thought that they were real, but so much of my youth had been spent pretending that I was a character in the Maggie Holt books that it didn’t take much for my imagination to jump there.

Remembering the day my brother and I performed our awakening rituals, I felt the urge to both smile and frown. Instead, my expression remained neutral. Or rather as neutral as it could be with my mouth hung open to suck in the air and my brow drenched in sweat.

I debated taking a break when I reached the park. Though it was early spring, the heat was a bit too much for my liking. That might have just been the exercise and the three-piece suit talking, but the shade felt nice either way.

Three minutes of leeway was more than enough, wasn’t it?

Thankfully there were other people running through the park to encourage me to keep moving. Among them was a young woman in loose sweats, an overweight man with a thick beard, and an old married couple. Hard as I tried to catch up to the bearded man, he simply outpaced me, and within no time at all he eventually managed to pass the young woman as well.

The only people I could pass was the elderly couple, it seemed, and it took a lot of effort to make that happen.

For the most part, the rest of the park was empty. A trio of teenagers in matching red jackets loitered by the fountain in the center, one of them washing his hands in the water while the other two leaned against a nearby bench and tree, respectively.

At first the bearded man was running in their direction, but as soon as he looked up and saw them he veered off in the other direction.

The young woman ran straight towards them.

“I wouldn’t go, that way, if I were, you,” I heard the old woman pant behind me. I stopped and turned to see her husband sitting on a bench a little ways back, and her just barely nipping at my heels.

“Why’s that?” I asked. I was breathing a little heavy, myself.

“Ah, I see,” she said, pausing to take a breath. “You’re not from, around here, are you?”

“Nope. Not to be rude, but I have somewhere to be, and it happens to be that way,” I said, pointing toward the teenagers.

“I’ll be brief, then,” she said after finally succeeding in catching her breath. “Those kids are part of a local gang called the Redcoats.”

I couldn’t help but snigger a little.

“It’s not a joke. They’re not a joke. If you have time to spare, follow that fat man’s example and take the long way around, even if it makes things inconvenient.” The way she said fat man was just as abrasive as when she talked about the Red Coats, suggesting she was the judgmental type.

I could work with that.

Taking a moment to retrieve my wallet, I handed her one of my business cards. “I know this is an unusual way to thank someone, but here’s my phone number if you need any help. First job is free, as a favor. Though it says P.I. I’m also a handyman, and household chores are not beneath me.”

She didn't take the card. Not at first. Instead, the old woman looked at her husband for a long moment, then gave me a sidelong glance.

“I insist. I’m new here and in desperate need of information. Things like groups of people I need to avoid, places, that’s invaluable in my line of work. You don’t have to call, but it would mean a lot if you at least consider.”

As I talked, I could see her face soften. It was hard to tell if it was because of what I said or because her husband got up from a bench and wandered toward a tree with a bird perched on one of its branches, singing. You didn’t need a keen eye to see he was a little bit out of it, shambling like he was in a daze.

“Okay,” she said as she took my business card. “Consider me considering.”

Satisfied, I put my wallet away, grabbed my luggage, and followed her advice. As I ran, I realized she was the second old person I’d made acquaintances with, today.

Was that just a coincidence, or was it a hint of something else?

When I rounded the fountain, I risked a glance back toward the Redcoats. The boy who was washing his hands had his arm around the young woman - who I just now noticed was wearing a maroon sweater - while the two other boys stood a fair ways away, their backs facing the couple and their eyes gazing off in opposite directions, as if they were standing guard.

Considering how casual they’d been before the young woman’s arrival, she would have to be someone of import. I took note of her angular jawline, bushy eyebrows, button nose and short, auburn bob.

Unfortunately the boys all looked rather generic. Two of them, including the boy at the fountain, had their heads shaved, while the remaining one had a mess of brown hair with the consistency of a mop. The boyfriend could have been asian, or maybe latino, while the other two boys were caucasian, like the girl.

Though the boys were presumably at the bottom of the hierarchy, it was their faces I really needed to remember. More than likely they would be the gang members on the streets, making things happen.

That was something I’d need to watch out for.

Before I knew it, I was back on the sidewalk, and though there were more cars on this side of the park, it wasn’t so packed that I couldn’t meander my way past them when the light turned red. One car’s front bumper was practically kissing another’s rear, however, forcing me to lift my luggage above my head just so I could squeeze on through. At least once I passed them I was basically home free.

From there I could see the PRT HQ in the distance.

It wasn’t the largest building in the city center, but with a single glance it certainly seemed like it. A big part of reason why it seemed larger than life was because the entire surface was covered in seamless television screens. Many of the TVs on the ground level were either scratched up, dented, or been vandalized with graffiti, but realistically that didn’t really matter. More than eighty percent of the building was left untouched, which was more than enough.

On the building a montage was playing out. Quick flashes of scenes that I guessed were half real missions, half staged events. The first clip followed a group of PRT squaddies clearing a parking garage and engaging a cape that seemed to be a eight legged anaconda with a very human-looking mask made of fractured bone. When the squaddies finally cornered it and began drenching it in containment foam, the screen became completely white and zoomed out to reveal a cape standing on top of a building, a large white cloud behind her. Her costume was so light a shade of grey it nearly blended in with the sky, other than the red lines that zipped all over the place, each line completely straight until they abruptly turned to create a right angle. It took a moment for me to notice, but some of the lines were sparking and erupting from her costume, like electricity. The ward raised a gauntleted hand into the air and the red electricity gathered there just as an older cape wearing a darker gray skinsuit flew by. Judging by the jagged, golden lines that decorated his body, it seemed the two capes were related somehow. When she grabbed his leg, the red electricity coursed through him, empowering his flight with a sudden jolt of speed. In the blink of an eye, the two capes disappeared off the side of the screen, sparks following in their wake and exploding like fireworks after a second or two.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit amazed. It was probably obvious, anyway, given how much I had slowed down and how badly I was staring. Tough as it was, I managed to level my gaze on the sidewalk and keep it there so I could focus on running the rest of the way. After crossing a few more streets - and dodging a few more cars - I reached the square that stood between the PRT HQ, Philadelphia City Hall, and the Municipal Court.

Each one of their entrances were flocking with bystanders and reporters.

I recognized Duncan Gaines’ lawyer standing at the top of the court’s stairs. He was a tubby man with a head that looked a lot like a baby’s, only it was framed by unruly sideburns that reminded me of velcro. Duncan wasn’t present, but I had a feeling he was somewhere close by. If not for my meeting, I would have joined the reporters in listening to whatever the lawyer had to say. Hopefully I would be able to find out later.

I had no idea what was going on outside the city hall, and frankly, I didn’t care. I’d never had an interest in politics, and I severely doubted that would ever change.

Honestly I wasn’t very interested in the PRT, either. When I triggered I wasn’t in a good enough position or headspace to consider approaching them for help. Though I harbored no grudge against them specifically, the government and I rarely agreed on anything. The law had let my brother and I down way too many times for me to ever trust it, and I was confident the PRT wouldn’t be much different.

Things were different, though. I was different. Like it or not, they had information I desperately needed. I had no intention of joining their agency to gain access to it, nor did I plan on telling them that I was a cape, but I was at least willing to offer a trade.

After all, they wanted to catch Specter just as much as I did.

I confirmed the time on my cell phone. 1:26. Even after my conversation with the old woman - who I just now realized never told me her name - I still arrived faster than I expected. The original plan was to hang out in the square for a while before going in so I could compose myself, but Lewis threw a wrench in that. Oh well. At least I wasn’t late, in the end.

When I joined the crowd outside the PRT I looked up at the building to see a young woman with an ice skater’s motif dancing across an empty street. She seemed to be a living ice sculpture with the power to glide over surfaces effortlessly, which likely made her a Breaker. As she skated along the pavement she spun, hopped, and even cartwheeled without losing any momentum, leaving a glassy trail behind her, until eventually she turned a corner and ran into what looked like an Ent straight out of Lord of the Rings. On impact, a blizzard erupted from the girl, coating the Ent and the buildings on either side of it in a layer of frost. I expected a battle to ensue, but apparently the Ent was friendly. Knocked on her back, the ice girl started to laugh. The Ent did, too, though it moved at a glacial pace, until the frost melted and-

“-Excuse me, sir,” I heard a robotic voice say beside me. It wasn’t so close that I was startled, but it was close enough that I could tell the ‘sir’ was referring to me.

I’m not sure what I expected to see, but it definitely wasn’t a pair of floating, glass orbs with a sea of blue 1s and 0s shimmering underneath their surface. The binary numbers rotated from left to right on one and right to left on the other, and the orbs rotated over one another vertically, as if they were perpetually rolling over each other. I had no clue how that process could keep them afloat, but I somehow looked like it was related.

When the voice spoke again, the numbers waved up and down with the rise and fall of its tone. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’ve noticed your pulse is racing and your body temperature is dangerously close to the triple digits. Are you feeling sick? Are you in danger?”

That surprised me. It was one thing to look and find a pair of blue balls hovering in the air beside me, but it was a completely different thing for them to read my vitals and show concern about my well being.

“No, I’m good. Thanks," I said, then turned away from whatever it was. A droid, I supposed, though it looked nothing like the droids I’d seen in movies or the Tinker Quarterly magazines.

“Oh! That’s a French accent, isn’t it?” the droid-balls said enthusiastically. “I took some French in middle school. How did it go? Bonjour. Je m’appelle Conveyance. Et vous?”

I froze in place, stunned. Was he being serious?

“How old are you?” I asked, incredulous.

“No! You have to answer my question first, and in français.”

A kid, then.

“Sorry Conveyance, but I don’t have time to chat. Shouldn’t you be out patrolling or something?”

“Oh, but I am! This is just one unit of many, and two more are pursuing criminals as we speak. This unit, however, is tasked with looking out for suspicious persons in the vicinity of the PRT HQ, and you-”

“-Just happened to ping your sensors. I understand. Well Conveyance, I’m actually supposed to be here. I have a meeting with an officer Eliza Rios at 1:30, which I’m running late for, literally, hence the sweat and the heartbeat.”

“Oh, I see...” Conveyance said, voice trailing off and then becoming a sound akin to an electric hum. It only lasted a couple seconds, but the 1s and 0s sped faster and vibrated along with the hum’s rhythm. “Can I see your I.D. please, Mr. Meunier?”

At hearing my last name, I startled like a deer in headlights. It made sense that the tinker guarding the HQ would be aware of scheduled visitors, but the thought never crossed my mind during the conversation.

Reluctant, I slipped my hand into my inner jacket pocket. I half expected the droid to buzz at me or taze me, but it seemed Conveyance didn’t expect me to be a threat. The kid must have been confident or gullible.

When I took my passport out and flipped it to the page with my photo and home of record, the binary numbers suddenly enlarged like the line in the middle was being zoomed in on. The droid made that electronic hum again, but this time the numbers slowed down rather than sped up, and didn’t vibrate.

A melodic chime resonated from the droid before the numbers returned to normal.

“Okay Mr. Meunier. The door will open for you now. It was nice talking to you. The front desk will direct you to Miss Rios. Good luck at your meeting, and have a nice day.”

I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond. Conveyance’s voice sounded more robotic than before, and his choice in words was noticeably more formal in comparison. If I had to guess the message had been pre-recorded.

It seemed the crowd outside of the PRT HQ were not bystanders or reporters, but a group of tourists. A guide dressed in a plastic Chevalier costume was trying to rein them back in, but Conveyance’s appearance drew their attention. A mother with two young boys brushed past me in his direction. In another life I might have been irritated enough to say something, but instead I shook my head and stepped up to a large glass door.

It wasn’t glass, actually, but I didn’t know what else to call it. Though I could see through it, it was silver and gleamed like metal. I tried to push it open, and the door sunk instead. A couple inches in, it retracted upward and sideways just enough to account for my width and height.

Fancy.

After entering the HQ, I couldn’t help but echo the thought. I felt like I just walked into the lobby of a 5-star hotel rather than a government agency. I could see pillars of marble and red carpets with gilded tassels anywhere I looked, and the waitinf area was filled with refurbished antique furniture that could have once been owned by a king. It was a bit too overbearing, honestly, but then again, who was I to say? A lot of my life had been spent living in back alleys and under bridges like the man I stumbled over earlier that day.

Man, I really should have apologized to him. Maybe I’d do go back to do it later.

“Hello there! Mr. Meunier, correct?”

A secretary waved at me from across the room. Above his head a clock read 1:33. I hoped Officer Rios wouldn’t be mad at me. If Conveyance didn’t try to practice his French I would have made it inside earlier, after all.

I approached the man at the desk and placed my still-open passport in front of him. “No need,” he said, smiling. “Conveyance already sent me a copy when he verified your credentials. I’ve gone ahead and called Miss Rios. She’ll be down to take you to an unclassified conference room shortly. Feel free to get comfortable in one of our extravagant sofas, or if your thirsty, order yourself a drink at the bar.”

“Bar?” I asked. The secretary gestured to the otherside of the waiting area, where a bald man with a goatee stood, drying a whiskey glass.

“Only non-alcoholic beverages during work hours, I’m afraid,” the secretary said, laughing as he smiled. “I recommend the Coconut Lavender Lemonade. It’s rather delightful.”

“No thank you. I’ll just take a seat. Have a good day.”

“You as well,” the man said, his smile unwavering.

On the outside I smiled back. On the inside, however, I resented the man for being so happy and put together. Some normal people just had it too good.

It wasn’t just my imagination, though. The bar just about confirmed it. This places decor was over the top. As I sat down, I pulled out my phone and typed ‘Why is the Philly PRT HQ so nice?’ on my favorite search engine, Wooster, then clicked the first option.

Apparently the building had been a luxury residential complex that was attacked by a group of anti-capitalist villains in the late 90s. The local PRT, along with a group of Protectorate heroes, managed to rescue a majority of the people who lived there, in addition to the owner.

During the attack, however, the building’s integrity had become so compromised that the owner had no other choice but to demolish it, until an Architect Tinker by the name of Chromedome offered to repair the place. Instead, the owner happily gave the property over to the Protectorate, who later turned it over to the PRT for being “the real heroes who saved the day.” By then the PRT agency had grown so large they were operating from three different locations, and was thus delighted to receive the gift.

It just so happened that the furniture like the sofa I was lounging on had decorated the complexes lobby during the attack, and in honor of the lives lost, they’d been refurbished and engraved with the names of the victims. After leaning forward and looking between my legs I found a plaque for one Maximilian Melena.

I wanted to make a joke about the man having a pretentious name. I dismissed the thought quickly, however, deciding it would be in poor taste. I really was trying to be a better person. Honestly, I was.

Idly I did wonder why this sofa had his name on it specifically. The first answer my mind jumped to was that he’d died on it.

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable lounging about as I was, I stood just as an elevator dinged, and looked.

A hispanic women in matching gray slacks and a wool top exited the elevator door. Her hair was pitch black and pulled back into a tight bun, and she had a thick set of square glasses over her eyes, magnifying the intensity of her stare.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Meunier. I’m sorry for the wait. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you somewhere that we can speak discreetly.”

Miss Rios didn’t bother waiting for a response before she began to walk, so I didn’t bother giving one. Judging from her professional demeanor and the speed in which she moved, I figured she either had a lot on her plate or simply wasn’t interested in having small talk. That was fine by me.

I jumped through a lot of hoops to arrange the meeting, and I had to travel a long way overnight just to make it. Not that I would have came to Philadelphia a day or an hour later. The second I found out what happened to Richard Gaines, I packed up my bag and got on the nearest train.

He wasn’t the only victim of the serial killer cape called Specter. Hell, he wasn’t even the tenth, according to the rumors circulating Parahumans Online. At the rate that Specter was killing, twenty more would be murdered by the end of the year.

And I knew, deep down, in the darkest pit of my heart, every single damn one of those deaths was because of me.


	3. Identification 1.3

My heart was pounding. Sweat drenched my brow, and not because I had just run a couple miles. At my side, my hand drummed an irregular rhythm against my thigh. I was nervous, and I knew it, and no matter how hard I fought my body for control, I couldn’t shake it.

God damn it, Remy, I thought.

If I didn’t get myself together now, I would be screwed. In the best case scenario, I would be kicked out and left to track down Specter on my own. In the worst…

No. I was not going to prison, or the Birdcage, or whatever. Not after all the things I did to avoid it the last time.

Work with me, I begged myself. As if it would make a difference I balled my hands into fists and hit myself in the thigh. A quiet yelp escaped my lips, and Miss Rios looked back. “Did you say something?” she asked me as she continued to walk. We were in a long, brick-walked hallway, completely barren of decorations. It was so unlike the lobby that it didn’t even feel like we were in the same building.

“No, officer,” I said. “Just clearing my throat.”

At least I managed to keep my voice steady.

She raised an eyebrow, but her gaze didn’t waver. For a moment I was convinced she could see the real me. The me hiding beneath the fancy suit and tie. The me behind the facade of the soft-spoken frenchman.

I could feel her brown eyes - magnified by her glasses - bore into me. I could feel the thick bead of sweat emerge from my forehead and slowly, painfully, torturously carve a path down the side of my face.

Then she shrugged and turned her attention forward.

Fuck.

My eyes fell as I breathed a hushed sigh of relief. A glint of metal around her belt caught my eye before I could finish breathing, however. Not a buckle, since I was looking at her back. No. It was the barrel of a gun, tucked in her pants and hidden underneath her wool top. The materials were thick enough that I couldn’t even see a bulge.

Double fuck.

What the hell did I get myself into?

I looked up, and saw a sign.

“Bathroom,” I blurted. Miss Rios turned to look at me, both eyebrows raised this time. “Do you mind if I use the bathroom quick, before we begin?” Again, her gaze was unwavering. I laughed - nervously, though it didn’t sound like it, fortunately - and answered the unasked question. “Think I drank too much coffee this morning.”

Her lips pulled upward. Not quite a smile, not even a grin, but they did move a bit. A fraction of an inch, at the very least. I dare say half.

Then she shrugged and turned her attention forward. “I’ll be in the room at the end of the hall. Left side, not right. I’ll leave the door open in case you forget.”

Before I could respond, the woman stepped off.

I took a deep breath to compose myself. Last thing I needed was to draw any more of Miss Rios’ eyebrows by bursting through the bathroom door. And besides, there could be someone already inside. Though we hadn’t seen anyone since we left the lobby, there could have been people working in the offices along the way. It didn’t seem likely, at this point, but still. Better safe than sorry.

I waited for Miss Rios to gain some distance, then shouldered my way through the door loudly, anyway.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Two urinals and three stalls on the left. Four sinks and just-as-many mirrors on the right. Not a person in the open space between. Quietly, I got down on my knees to see if there were any feet in the stalls. Unless there was someone hiding, each was empty. I got back up and turned around, checked the door for a lock, and hurriedly jammed my thumb when I pushed the button on the knob. I tested to see if it would turn, after, and it didn’t. Good.

I turned off the lights, then went up to each individual stall and opened them just to make sure the coast was clear. Satisfied, I entered the final stall put down the toilet seat, sat down on top of it, then stepped out of my body.

No. Not my body.

Remy’s.

My body was long gone.

I took a step. There was only enough room for one person in the stall so I couldn’t travel far. Though I knew it wouldn’t work, I tried to nudge the door open. I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t even budge, but I was disappointed.

I sighed, if it could even be called a sigh. In my Breaker state I had no lungs, even though I could still talk and make sounds that sounded vaguely human. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to describe the sound of my voice, but nothing ever comes close. The best I could articulate was the sound of wind blowing through the hollow of a tree, only there were many holes inside that whistled at various pitches. It was naturally soft, practically a whisper that was struggled to be heard. Not high or deep in tone. Not pleasant, either. Eerie would be the ideal word, but even eerie doesn’t capture it. It was just one of those things that required first hand experience to understand.

I turned and faced Remy. He was slouched over his lap, arms positioned just right to keep him from falling forward. His wavy black hair swayed in front of a pair of glossy hazel eyes, and his mouth was hung open.

Bending over in front of him, I reached for his face. Unlike the door I could still move him. Inanimate objects were completely resistant to me, but people, on the other hand, I had total control of. Most of the time, at least. And of course Remy just had to go and prove the fact that my power could slip.

The only question was why.

I reached for his face, but a more apt word would be through it. I saw my shadowy hand pass through the man’s chin and felt a blossom of warmth. I willed him to lift his head and look me in the eyes, then made him smile.

Through my eyes I could see him, and through his eyes I could see me. I’d turned the lights off so that I’d be comfortable in the darkness, but also because I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of myself. Even after all this time, it still made me sick to see what I’d become. My thin, inky figure was nothing but a stain in the blackness. Right then, that was the most I could handle.

“Remy,” I whispered, my voice sending shivers through his body. “What the hell are you doing?”

He couldn’t answer, of course. The man was practically brain dead. But he was still alive, and there were glimmers of him lingering in that head of his. My power had a tendency to highlight those glimmers, and usually did it in the most inconvenient moments possible. If I were possessing a normal person, my power would use that same gift to help me impersonate the host. Sometimes, however, that meant doing things I didn’t want, and for that reason alone, Remy was preferable. I was able to be me most of the time. As a cost, however, I had to deal with this.

I removed my hand from his head, watched him slouch again, then straightened my back; if you could even call it that. My body was just the faint illusion of a human. A living silhouette.

“Listen to me, Remy,” I began, intentionally hardening my woodwind voice. “I can tell you’re scared, and I one-hundred-percent understand why. The situation you’re in is incredibly fucked up, especially with me controlling your body and all, but for the love of God, please work with me! I know how this looks, but I promise that we are doing something good here, and that’s what you’ve always wanted to do, right? Good?”

I didn’t really know where I was going with this, so I just sighed and said the first thing that came to mind.

“When I found you in the hospital no one knew your name. You’d been mugged by a bunch of xenophobes and left for dead with not one thing that could identify you. I know that you can’t remember this, but the first thing I did when I took over your body was track them down and get your things back. I’m sorry I had to pawn some of your belongings off, but honestly I had no choice. They’d already spent all your money on boozes and drugs, and we needed food to survive.”

Though I didn’t need to breathe, I stopped to take a breath anyway. Mostly for his sake since I just said a lot and had a lot more to say, but also for dramatic effect.

“The second thing I did, however, was look into who you were. I found out about your parents - God rest their souls - and all the volunteer work you did after they passed away, in honor of their passing. I can’t tell you how shitty I felt that a good guy like you got so royally fucked, all because you weren’t raised in America. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this, but the third thing I did was track those assholes down again and get vengeance.”

I paused again, but not intentionally. I’d reached the end of my thought and only then realizing how unwise it was for me to finish there.

“And before you worry,” I continued, hoping he didn’t notice my brief stumble, “don’t. They’re still alive. I just made sure they would be the debt until the day that they do die, after having to pay for all their damn hospital bills.”

I dropped my head in regret. Not because of what I did to them, but because I knew what I’d just said wasn’t enough. If I was trying to convince him to work with me I would need change tracks quick. In the end, it was better to mix the truth with lies.

“My point is, Remy, that I’m not a bad guy. Maybe I’ve got some issues keeping my anger in check, maybe I’m prone to theft and violence because I’m inherently envious and wrathful towards those who have things I don’t or who lived better lives than me, but damn it, I’m probably more self-aware of my issues than most people and fuck am I trying my hardest to change. And you know what? Honestly, possessing you has been slowly helping me make that happen. For Christ’s sake, I gave a homeless veteran 50 dollars because of you, today!”

I’d raised my voice by the end and could hear my words echoing strangely off the walls as if it were coming from them. If I wasn’t the one speaking, I may have had trouble pinpointing the actual source. It was good information to have, just not the right moment to learn it. I had to take another breath, deeper this time, to calm me down.

“Please, Remy. Please, help me make this happen. I can tell you hate it when I lie by the way your body reacts - by the way I lose just a little bit more control of you each time I deceive someone - but I assure you, I’m not lying for the wrongs reasons. My intentions are pure. Specter is… he’s a monster. He’s killed people. Brutally. Bloodily. His last murder was done on live television. If I could describe the way he did it without losing my cool, if I could show it to you and have you actually process it, I guarantee that you’d throw up on your lap, right here. Imagine all of the families Specter has destroyed, all the innocents he’s scarred just by showing what he can do to the world. He needs to be stopped, and my power… I suspect I am the only person in the world who can do it. I was practically made for this.”

Enough of him, I thought. I need to make Remy understand his role in this.

“Listen to me very carefully, Remy. I need you to understand what I’m about to say or else he may never be stopped. I. Can. Not. Do. This. Without. You. Did you hear me? Do you get it? I need you! Finding someone in your condition is rare, the odds one-in-a-billion. Without you, the only alternative is taking control of someone that is truly and completely conscious, and forcing them to deal with those nightmarish consequences. I’ve got enough morals to understand how wrong that would be, and I’m confident that even in your current state, you’re able to understand that too. So please, Remy. Please work with me, and I swear when this is all said and done, I’ll take you back home and bury you alongside your parents. How does that sound?”

Looking at the man, there was no indication that my words had any effect. Honest to God, I wasn’t confident this would work. I never tried something like this before - never been so desperate that it felt half-as-necessary - but right now… I just had to have faith. Those glimmers of personality that still resided within him…

Yeah. Remy was still alive in there, somewhere. He had to be.

Not entirely, but enough.

I stepped into Remy, and I became him.

My heart beat quietly. Sweat no longer drenched my brow, and not just because it had a chance to dry. On my lap, my hands were completely still against my thighs. Remy had calmed down, and I knew it, and I no longer had to fight for control of my body. We could do this.

I got up, washed my hands and face, turned the lights on, and unlocked the door. A minute later, I knocked on the open door at the end of the hall and let myself in. In the middle of a long wooden conference table sat Miss Rios, facing the door with a closed laptop in front of her, her hands clasped over it. As soon as I looked, I found her eyes already fixed on mine. Large and brown and sharp, despite the glasses and their near-perfect roundness.

Across the room a giant monitor was attached to the wall, the time projected onto it from a machine hanging from the ceiling above her. In big, bold numbers: 1:51.

“Sorry for taking so long,” I said, feigning a smile. “Outside Conveyance asked me if I was feeling sick and I dismissed it without a second thought. After what I’d just been through, though…”

“If you’d prefer we can reschedule this for another day,” the officer said, not even skipping a beat.

“No thank you,” I said as I walked over to the table. I reached for the chair across from her, then stopped myself halfway. I was about to ask if she wanted me to sit further away when she nodded her head in acceptance. I continued to speak while sitting down. “In my line of work,” I said,” there’s so such thing as sick days. The mission is just too important for a measly bug to get in the way. I imagine the PRT has a very similar mindset?”

Wordlessly she nodded as I finished settling into the chair. She seemed like she was waiting for me to go on, so I opened my mouth again, only to be interrupted before I could utter a single word.

“Let’s get to the point,” she said. ”You have information regarding Specter that you want to sell to us. Is that correct?”

“Sell? Absolutely not. Money isn’t an issue for me.”

That's absolutely bullshit, I thought. But not what I’m here for, regardless.

“Then what do you want?” she asked, then sniffed dismissively.

“An even trade,” I answered as calm as I could, fighting internally not to let her get to me. “Information for information. I have a client who wishes for me to pursue Specter separate from the PRT. He has no issue with us sharing what we know, but he won’t pay me unless I catch the bastard myself.”

“He?” She asked. Her tone was inquisitive, but also slightly… amused? I expected her to say more, but she didn’t. In response, I sat in silence. “Well?” she asked after a few seconds passed. Her tone didn’t change, but her expression shifted minutely, lips drooping a fraction of an inch. Not a frown, but in that general direction.

When I didn’t respond immediately she tapped a finger on her laptop.

“My client asked me to keep his identity confidential. I have that right as a private investigator.”

“Sure,” she said, then tapped a finger on the laptop again. “Can you tell me why he wants to keep his identity a secret, or why he’s paying for an investigation separate from the PRT?”

“I can’t tell you much,” I said, then paused to see how she’d react. She didn’t tap her finger again, but her lip drooped another fraction. “What I can say is that he is the brother of a previous victim - one of the earliest, in fact - and that so far he’s been… dissatisfied with the PRT’s success thus far. Not that he was satisfied with how your agency handled things in the beginning, either. The point is that he has reasons to be upset with you…” I said, trailing off.

“I believe I know who you’re referring to,” she said, picking up on the hints.

Good, I thought. It was a misdirection, of course, but it was one that should work in my favor.

“For argument’s sake, I recommend not making assumptions. I’m sure you know what’s been circulating online since Richard Gaines’ death. There are many people who are worried about the PRT overstepping boundaries after what happened to the news studio, following the broadca-”

“-That was not us,” she said, cutting me off. It must have been a sore subject.

“That’s what I heard, and for the record, I believe it. But my client and your typical citizen doesn’t know what to believe. The logical explanation is that Watchdog was responsible for the huge power surge and the data wipes. I’m sure you can see why that might have people concerned.”

To my surprise she didn’t respond. Other than her lips tightening into a perfect line, her expression remained exactly the same. She didn’t tap her finger on the laptop. Hell, she didn’t even blink. She just stared at me, big brown eyes boring into mine, and I just sat there as still as I could, sweat beading on my brow. A jolt of nervous energy coursed through my hands, causing them to twitch on my lap. Thank God they weren’t visible from where she was.

“Okay,” she said, finally blinking, and tapped a finger on the laptop three times. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a signal to someone watching and idly wondered if there was cameras watching us. I had to resist the urge not to turn my head and look when she nodded her head, like she had just agreed to something. A voice in her ear? I couldn’t see a bug on her even with her black hair pulled back.

Intuition told me that whatever decision she’d just come to - regardless of if it was in her head or made with someone I couldn’t see - wasn’t something I was going to like.

“This is how this is going to work,” she said. “You’re going to tell me everything you know, and then I’ll share with you what we deem necessary.”

It was incredible I made it that far without losing my temper. After hearing that, I couldn’t help but think it was a miracle I didn’t laugh in her face or say something that I’d regret. Only way I managed to keep my cool was by focusing on the clue she just gave me.

We deem necessary, she said. The emphasis might have been on necessary, but I now knew this conversation wasn’t just between the two of us. That, or that's what she wanted me to believe.

Either way I’d need to be especially careful about what I said from then on.

“I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” I began. “Though I may personally trust the PRT - and thus by extension, trust you - I also trust your definition of necessary is vastly different from mine. I’m not audacious enough to declare how things will go from here, but I’m also not spineless enough to accept anything that I deem unfair.”

At that, Miss Rios laughed. Christ Almighty, the woman actually laughed. Was she intentionally trying to piss me off?

“You trust me, huh? Those are just words to me, Mr. Meunier, and to me words are meaningless. You’re asking a lot from my department, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re essentially offering nothing. Why should the PRT trust you? Why should I, for that matter?”

“I’ve offered the information I have,” I said a bit more exasperated than I intended.

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Meunier. How am I supposed to trust you know anything we don’t know already? How am I supposed to trust you know anything at all? I’m naturally a skeptic as is, but you haven’t given me a single reason to believe a word you’re saying. Honestly I don’t know how you got this meeting scheduled to begin with. How can you expect me to come to any form of agreement with you if I don’t even know who you are?”

On the outside, I nodded my head and lifted my briefcase up onto the table. On the inside, however, I wanted nothing more than to knock her upside the head with my briefcase and laugh in retaliation.

“My résumé,” I said after undoing the latches and removing a stapled packet from the top of the strack of professional documents and photographs, of which the vast majority was fake or altered. “Believe it or not,” I began as I slid the packet across the table, “I’ve work with the PRT on two cases similar to this one. I trust you’ve heard of Lullaby?”

To her credit, the woman didn’t react at the mention of the child killer’s name. I’d expected her lip to droop another fraction, at the very least. Maybe she didn’t know who she was, or I was misreading the tell.

“Lullaby was a cape in Bismarck, North Dakota who had a penchant for-”

“-Stop,” she said, cutting me off. “I know who she is and what she did.”

“Yes, well. I was there. I was part of the team that profiled her and helped discover her whereabouts. If not for one of my colleagues selling that information to a cape by the name of Brazen Bull, we would have captured her. Instead, she was killed in cold blood. I suspect we wouldn’t even be having this back and forth about trust if things worked out the way they were supposed to. You’d know who I was and what I was capable of even before I called.”

She didn’t acknowledge me as I talked, but she didn’t interrupt me either. I prayed to God that meant she was being receptive. At this point, if she called bullshit on what I was saying, I’d be utterly screwed. I might not be an expert, but I was pretty sure there was a law against lying about things like this to a government official.

She flipped a page, and kept on reading. I decided to let her go on without further interruption.

When she reached the end, she firmly creased the folded corner and laid it down in front of her.

“What’s this at the end about a serial killer cape called Phantasm?” she asked. “It seems incomplete, or like you put it on last minute.”

Damn it, I thought, hoping she wouldn't notice. Plan D it is, then.

“Ah, yes. That’s the job I just finished in Montreal.”

“I haven’t heard anything about this cape,” she said. Though it was a statement, she looked at me like it was a question.

“I hadn’t either until I got a call from an old acquaintance of mine. A Canadian Thinker called Medium, who now that I think of it isn’t that well known himself. He was hired by the Montreal Police to figure out what the hell was going on in their city. Phantasm is a Changer, you see, with the power to shapeshift into anyone he kills. Phantasm was dressing up in the skin of his old victims to lure new ones, usually through seduction, and killing them to add more identities to his roster. Medium’s power allowed the police to figure that much out, but hard as he tried, he couldn't profile the bastard. That's why he reached out to me. Together we figured out Phantasm’s true identity, and just last week, the Montreal Police caught him.”

It was a believable story. I knew it was because I read it and thought it was a real news article, not fiction. Though I found out myself how it didn’t hold up under scrutiny, I sincerely hoped that a combination of it and what I said about Lullaby would convince her not to dig any further. I did a lot of research, preparing for this meeting, and spent countless hours going over what I’d say in my head. If I was lucky it would have all been worth it.

“I see that you have contact information for both the Medium and Montreal’s Chief of Police. If I were to call them now, would they answer?”

Fuck fuck fuck, I said internally, like a mantra. Addendum E, please don't fail me.

“Absolutely,” I said. Maybe a bit too eagerly. “Montreal is in the same time zone, after all.”

Stupid of me to say that. She’d be an idiot if she didn't know that, and bringing it up made it sound like an accusation.

Miss Rios didn't say a word. She didn't even blink as she reached into her pocket and retrieved her phone.

“It's an international number,” I said. “It will charge you a fee.”

That got a reaction. Her lip just barely quivered.

“You can use my phone if you prefer.”

She did, thankfully. That way my friend would see it was me calling and answer in character.

I pulled out my own phone and made sure nothing that might get me in trouble was open, then brought up the keypad and started to type. “No,” she said. “I’ll make the call.”

I left the number for the “Chief of Police” half typed when I handed it over. Come on, I thought. Take the bait.

She looked over the list of contacts at the end of my resume, then glanced at the phone. A very distinct clicking resounded from it as she deleted the numbers, then a series of different chimes as she input the “Medium's” number.

Yes, yes, yes.

She hit call, then the speaker, and then the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. I was sweating again, I knew, but it was mostly because the heat was on high in this room. At least that's what I told myself when it started to ring a fourth time with no answer. On the fifth ring the sound cut off abruptly. We heard a man groaning as he moved, and she placed the phone in the center of the table so that both of us could reach it.

“Ugh. Fuck me. Remy? What the hell do you want at this ungodly hour?”

Thank you, Emile, you magnificent bastard.

“Ungodly hour? You lazy bum, it’s two past noon. Wait, hold on a second,” I said, then hit mute. “Sorry about that, officer. Medium is kind of a… colorful guy, for a lack of nicer words. There’s a reason I chose the Chief of Police. If you want, we can hang up and make another call.”

It took me letting Remy have a little control to sound nervous, but it worked.

“No,” she said. Then she smiled. “This is perfect. Unmute it.”

Perfect indeed. If she wasn't suspicious of me trying to call the ‘Chief of Police’ before, she certainly was after that. “If you say so,” I responded, making sure to drag out each word a bit longer than necessary. Delaying the inevitable, she would think.

I hesitated, making a face to display that I was considering my words carefully, then unmuted the phone. “Medium,” I said. “I’m in the company of a PRT officer who would like to talk to you about my role in the Phantasm case. I’d use your name, but I'm not sure if you'd want her knowi-”

“-Fuck if I care about some stupid secret identity,” he said, interrupting me. I made sure to emphasize the word her so he would act like a fool especially. “Most people call me Ian,” he told Miss Rios. “But if you sound cute, you can call me any time.”

“Ian!” I yelled. I would have laughed but instead I channeled my exhilaration into my best impression at sounding appalled.

“It's okay, Mr. Meunier,” Miss Rios said. “I can take things from here.”


	4. Identification 1.4

“Damn,” Emile said, stretching each letter’s pronunciation just a moment too long for emphasis. He was playing a role, pretending to be a fake cape named Medium - or Ian, as he just introduced himself - and a part of that role was being excessively flirty.

“Cute doesn’t even begin to describe the sound of your voice,” he said, each word as smooth and sweet as honey. Being from Maine, he practiced his Canadian accent often enough that it sounded natural. He was the perfect person for what I needed done today, and he was my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

While ‘Ian’ talked, I watched Miss Rios’ once hard demeanor gradually soften. Her cheeks became less taut when she stopped clenching her jaw, and as her eyebrows settled into a neutral position, the creases on her forehead smoothed out, as well as the fledgling wrinkles around her eyes. She smiled again, and it actually seemed to be genuine, this time. Based on my interactions with her before the phone call, I’d expected my friend’s acting to frustrate her. Instead, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

Either was good for what I had in mind.

“Thank you, Ian. I’m truly flattered.”

The skeptic in me thought I was somehow being mislead. The question was, which side of the officer was the deception? The impatient hard-ass, or her current affable demeanor?

“Your Accent…” Ian said, followed by a deliberate hum so that she knew he was thinking hard. “You’re a latina of some sort, aren’t you? Let me guess. Cuban?”

Miss Rios laughed a bit, shaking her head as she did it. “Kind of close, but no,” she said. “Born and raised Puerto Rican.”

“Oof,” Ian breathed. “No wonder your voice sounds like music to my ears. Every word that comes out of your mouth makes me want to dance. You should come up here to Québec, baby, and I promise I’ll learn how to salsa just for you.”

“That’s sweet,” she said with a laugh, though it was shorter than the one before, or maybe just less sincere. “But you should know that I have a boyfriend and-”

“-and I have a pet goldfish,” Ian interrupted, “since we’re bringing up things that don’t matter.”

“And,” Miss Rios asserted the moment he was finished, her voice noticeably louder but just as light-hearted. She waited a moment, likely to make sure she wouldn’t be spoken over again, then continued. “My boyfriend knows how to salsa. He learned Spanish just to help me take care of my abuela. Frankly, Ian, there’s nothing you or anyone else could possibly do to separate us. No amount of flattery will ever change the way I feel about him. But honestly? Thanks.”

I wasn’t sure if Emile would pick it up over the phone, but I couldn’t help but hear Miss Rios’ confidence falter around the time she said “possibly do to separate us.”

Either way, I was also unsure how ‘Ian’ would react to that. According to the fake articles we’d read about him online, Medium, AKA Ian Mead, was a chauvinistic womanizer. When he met a woman and decided he liked them, he was a relentless flirt. Often it caused problems in the workplace, either because they fell for it and he left them in despair or because they were made uncomfortable by his advances and reported it accordingly. As such, he was never able to join a proper hero team. During interviews he’s claimed a preference for working alone, but his personality tells a different story. One of loneliness and longing. Unfortunately he couldn't solve either when commitment and him just didn’t get along.

Emile, on the other hand, was a truly good person. One of the few I knew who was willing to work with me, considering all the things I’d done. Not that he knew half of that, but… that’s not the point. Though Emile was a notorious flirt like Ian, he’d always be polite and never push boundaries. The fact that he was saying cute rather than sexy was just one example of his well-mannered nature bleeding through into his act as a lecher.

Though I haven’t known Emile that long, I knew him well. After I triggered and found out I’d need to spend the rest of my life pretending to be someone else, he was the one who taught me how to act more naturally and rely less on emotional manipulation. Honestly, I doubted there was another person in the world capable enough to get to me where I was, then. Even without my power he had the talent and drive to adopt a new character’s perspective with ease, though sometimes he would get so absorbed into being someone else that it was a struggle to snap him out of it.

We could relate in so many ways. It’s why I think we became so close, in the end. But that also meant him doing this for me was putting him at a big risk. Not only did I have to worry about us getting caught and dealing with the repercussions of that, I was concerned that he might lose a big part of himself in the process.

In the moment of awkward silence that followed Miss Rios’ rejection, I prayed not only for Emile to make the right call for our sakes, but for his own sake especially. It was shitty, but more than that, I prayed for him not to fail. There was so much at stake. More lives than his or mine, for certain.

At that, I briefly pictured Duncan Gaines’ corpse and my stomach roiled violently. It was a miracle I didn’t throw my breakfast up on the conference table right then.

“Well,” Ian said, laughing bitterly. “Guess you can’t blame a boy for trying.”

“No,” Miss Rios chuckled in return. “Don’t suppose I can.”

So good so far, I thought.

I thought too soon.

“If you really want to thank me, though, just promise you’ll save my number after this and give me a call if something tragic ever happens to your boyfriend. I’m not above being a rebound if it means spending a night with a woman like you.”

Fuck. Just like that, Miss Rios’ face hardened. She glared up at me as if recalling I was here for the first time. A glimmer of fear sparked within Remy and I touched it without thinking, the memory of the gun tucked into the back of her pants flashing before my eyes. I released it quickly before something worse could surface.

If she noticed my fear she didn’t let it affect her expression. Surprisingly she didn’t let Ian’s poor wording change her tone of voice, either.

“No promises,” she said airly. “Sorry if I broke your heart.”

If I closed my eyes and imagined her face, I would have believed she was smiling while she said that. Looking at her, however? Other than the slightest twitch of her bottom lip and the barely perceptible vein bulging on the side of her neck, all I saw was rigid professionalism.

She clearly didn’t want Ian to know she was upset. But why? I didn’t get it.

“Break my heart?” Ian replied, no amusement left in his voice. “Honey, that shit’s been shattered since long before I learned how to spell the word.”

I had no idea how, but Emile realized something had changed and shifted his tone accordingly. Judging by the way Miss Rios looked at me and adjusted her posture - not that she needed to bother, as her back was already straight with her shoulders set wide apart - it seemed she was conscious of giving something away. I’d need to ask Emile about it later. At the moment, however, I was only worried about me.

While listening to their back and forth, Remy had asserted a bit more control of his body. I found myself slouching and my foot tapping an unsteady rhythm beneath the table. The floor was carpeted so it wasn’t loud, but in the silence that followed Ian’s last statement, it had become obvious.

Probably a good thing for Miss Rios to think I was uneasy. I definitely was, which made it feel more believable. It being a different reason than what she was thinking gave me an advantage, as it allowed me to cover my true intentions.

Convenient or not, I really hated losing control of my actions.

I took a deep breathe and stilled my foot.

“Ian,” I said. “Can you please talk to her about the Phantasm case? The reason for us calling is because the officer here doesn’t trust me. I was hoping you could help alleviate her concerns.”

“Hate to break this to you, Remy,” Ian said curtly, “but I’m a fucking horrendous liar. You’re shit-outta-luck.”

A chill ran through me as I looked up and saw Miss Rios staring at me, the corners of her mouth pulled up ever so slightly, creating the most unfriendly smile I’d ever seen on a woman. The childish image of a cartoon cat trapping a mouse and getting ready to pounce came to mind.

“What do you mean by that, Mr…” Miss Rios said, trailing off at the end, smiling the whole time.

“Just Ian,” he said. “Or Medium, if you insist on being formal. And what I mean by that is Remy isn’t someone you should trust.”

After that I fucking felt trapped. What the hell are you doing, Emile?

“The man’s a self-righteous asshole,” he continued. “Two faced, too, if you ask me. One day he’ll listen to you bitch about your boss and how badly you want to punch him in the face every time they call your name, then the next he’ll walk right in his office and recite every damn word you said. When you go to confront him about it, you’ll find out he used the situation to maneuver himself into an authority position above you, then he’ll threaten to fire you if you don’t play by his rules. He may say some shit about being dedicated to the mission and putting its success first. A week or two in, however, you’ll see the only thing he gives a flying fuck about is his pay and making a name for himself. Don’t let the prick fool you. He’s smart and clever enough to read people like books and figure out the best way to interact with them in order to get whatever the fuck he wants, and if he sees you might get in his way, he’ll knock you down before you even see the strike coming. And worst of all? As soon as the dust settles from screwing you over, he’ll place your name and number on a list of references without your permission just to make him look like hot-shit.”

I didn’t have to fake looking angry, though I did have to fight back a glimmer of Remy’s anguish at hearing his name besmirched. Just like moving through water, I felt resistance as I tried to snatch the phone off the table. Whether the resistance was enough to stop me from reaching the phone first or Miss Rios just anticipated my reaction, she managed to shield the phone with her hand and drag it away from me.

“I see,” she said, looking at me with that same rigid expression. It was worrisome, but at least she was no longer giving me that damn infuriating smile. “This is good information to know,” she continued. “A lot of what you said explains something I have noticed about him. I’m not going to apologize for him writing you down as a reference with your permission, but I am genuinely sorry that his decision lead me to bothering you at this ungodly hour, as you put it. Now that you’re on the phone, though, do you mind if I ask you a couple more questions?”

“Might as well,” he said, accompanied by the sound of a beer can opening next to his phone. “I’m wide awake and between jobs now, so I’ve got nothing else to do until the sun goes down. I’m counting his as a favor to you, though, so you better save my number after we are done. Deal?”

She didn’t reply immediately, and though her expression hadn’t changed, I could see the decision already made on her face. She wasn’t as good of an actor as Emile or myself, but she had experience with putting an act on all the same. I used the opportunity of her staring at the phone in silence to check the ceiling and walls for cameras. Unless there was a hidden one in the projector or smartboard, it seemed I wasn’t being watched.

Acting indeed.

“Deal,” she said, finally. Emile let out a short breath, which I’d heard enough times to know he was wearing that notoriously smug grin of his. First off, everything you just said about Remy and your boss; I take it that was during the Phantasm case?”

“No, actually,” he said without hesitation.

One of Miss Rios’ eyebrows raised at that. Even though I knew the story, the speed and confidence Emile responded with took me aback.

“No?” she asked.

“Yup,” he answered.

Miss Rios sighed, exasperated. “Could you please elaborate?”

“Sure. That was the first time I worked with Remy. The killer was just a normie, no offense, and usually that meant I wouldn’t have trouble catching them on my own. But as much as I hate to admit it, that particular sick fuck was smarter than me and my power. His M.O. was so clean my retrocognition couldn’t pick up anything we could use to determine his identity. What few clues I did find turned out to be traps or wild goose chases, as if the guy somehow anticipated me. So the dickhead boss with the punchable face puts out an ad for more help, and next thing I know, Remy shows up and suddenly fucks me over, then goes on to lord on me, as if he fucking rates.”

The more Emile talked, the worse Remy felt. That glimmer of anguish I felt before was growing bigger and quickly becoming harder to ignore. It was the first time I’d ever felt an emotion that powerful coming from Remy. If it got any stronger, I was afraid his personality might assert some control. If it did it could be catastrophic.

I wish I could talk to him. Explain that although my friend was making us sound so bad, he was actually helping us look good. Not as a person, but as an investigator. I wasn’t sure Remy would care about that, but if I reminded him of Specter and how important it is for us to succeed here, he might relent.

For a moment I considered interrupting the conversation and trying to direct Emile to calm down on the insults, but before I could, Miss Rios spoke up.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” she said. “But I’m having some trouble making sense of the Phantasm case, then. If you were working on it already like he said and you have all these bad things to say about him, how did Mr. Meunier get hired in the first place?

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” he said. “I called the asshat myself.”

Again, Miss Rios raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry?” she asked.

“For what?” he answered.

Again, Miss Rios sighed deeply. “What I meant to ask is why did you call him?”

“Fuck me. Are you really going to make me say it?”

“Yes, Mr-” she began, then paused to collect her thoughts. “Ian. Medium. I don’t really understand why you called Mr. Meunier for help if you hate him this much. So yes, I’m going to make you say it.”

“Before I do I just want to say thing. Remy? Fuck you.”

Fuck me, I thought as that glimmer of anguish flared at the direct insult. Before my eyes I saw a brief flash of the worst, most painful moment of my life. Blood on my hands, surrounded by strangers in shadows, each one of them yelling and laughing and drinking in my honor, and me feeling so terribly shitty that I actually felt sick. I could feel the chemicals in my gut stirring so much that I thought my stomach and intestines were trying to writhe their way free of me.

“Don’t think for a moment that I like or respect you,” he started. I couldn’t bring myself to look up from the phone as he spoke, doing everything in my power not to vomit or make a face. Especially since I could see Miss Rios staring at me from the upper edge of my vision. “And for you, my puerto rican princess,” he continued, “please don’t take this as permission to like or respect him yourself, damn it. But as much as I hate to admit it, the two-faced P.O.S. in front of you was smarter than the sick fuck we caught in Maine. As much as I want to strangle Remy’s tiny little neck, that’s the reason I still have his number saved. There aren’t many people out there capable of tracking down the monsters like Christopher Gibbons, Lullaby, or even Phantasm; cape or otherwise. So fuck. If you have the option to turn the man away, you should do it and don’t think twice. But if you’re desperate? If you have absolutely no one else in this God-forsaken world you can rely on to do whatever it is you’re trying to do? Then bite the bullet and put him to work. He will get it done, even if he pisses you off every step of the way.”

I wanted to say something, but I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I would lose it. Somewhere along Emile’s speech, Remy had calmed down enough that I no longer had to worry about him gaining control. I was still reeling from the memory of that day, though, and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to recover from it.

I was forcing myself not to think about it for a God-damned reason.

I still couldn’t bring myself to look away from the phone, but enough of Miss Rios was in my peripheral vision for me to catch a hint of movement. I couldn’t help but think it betrayed something and instantly regretted not being able to see what.

I did see her tap a finger on my phone two times, though, her finger hanging in the air for a second longer than normal before falling down.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Medium, so thank you for that. Regarding Mr. Meunier, I don’t have much else to ask. Though I do have one more question. This time about you.”

“Oh?” Emile asked. Not Ian. He spoke in his normal accent, as if caught off guard. Thankfully it was just one word.

Hopefully she didn’t notice.

“Now and then I work with capes,” she said. “Many of them have been Thinkers, and from the sounds of it, their powers weren’t much different than yours. Given the fact I work for the PRT, I’ve been taught quite a bit about parahumans, and I even consider myself a bit of a scholar.”

“So what? You want to know how my power works?” Ian asked, abrupt. Likely to get her to the point.

“No, actually. What I find more interesting and want to know about you is how you got your powers.”

Fuck!

In all our preparation, this wasn’t a subject Emile and I ever discussed. He knew about my powers, of course, but the one time he asked about the way I got them, I just shrugged him off and he never brought it up again. Nothing in the articles we read about Ian Mead talked about his trigger event, and honestly I wasn’t sure if Emile even knew what those were. Hell, those articles hardly mentioned anything about Ian Mead’s origins, other than him being a native Québecker or that his little sister had died of skin cancer.

All he could do was improvise, and I wasn’t even sure he knew enough to pass the test. If Miss Rios really did consider herself a bit of a scholar then she would know enough about triggers and how the circumstances impact the power’s manifestation to figure out he was bullshitting her.

If I were in his shoes, even I wouldn’t know what to say. Everything I knew about powers came from discussions on Parahumans Online, and a lot of people on there believed the PRT knew a lot more about them than they have said to the public.

This is it, I thought. The moment everything falls apart.

Such a dumb thing to overlook.

“Are you fucking serious?” Ian asked, his tone suddenly harsh, any semblance of playfulness replaced with sharp hostility. “You you stupid, or just a bitch? If you work with capes you should know how they react when asked that motherfucking question. You know what? Don’t bother saving my number, you nosy twat. I don’t want to ever hear from you again.”

Emile hung up, and both Miss Rios and I remained utterly still. I was stunned, but she appeared completely unmoved by my friend’s angry words. For a good while we just stared at one another before I finally decided to reach my hand out across the table, palm up. She leaned forward to place my phone in my hand. As soon as her hands were free she began tapping on the laptop in front of her. This time she didn’t stop, just tapped and stared. Waiting for me to talk, was she?

“I’d apologize for his behavior,” I said, “but I did warn you.”

“You did,” she said, voice solid. Completely unphased. “Honestly, that’s exactly why I went through with it.”

I knew the answer, but it was best for her to think I didn’t.

“Why?” I stressed the word. I was aiming for exasperation, but I sounded more exhausted than anything.

“I figured you were afraid of him saying something you didn’t want me to hear. At first, the way you reacted convinced me I was on the right track. Now that it’s over with, it seems I was right…”

The way her volume tapered off at the end gave implied that she left some thought unsaid. I gave her a moment to continue, but she started to tap her finger again and I decided I was tired of wasting time.

“It seems you were right, but?” I said. Not precisely harsh, like Emile, but irritated.

“But intuitions tells me that you’ve been playing me this whole time, and what Ian just said appears to collaborate my suspicions.”

On the outside, I laughed bitterly. On the inside, however, I was fuming with anger. Not at Emile - he did the best he could - or even her - she was just doing her job. I was angry at myself. For not doing better. For taking as many risks as I have when I could have tried being patient. Searched for some more answers on my own first, or even taken the time to prepare myself and Emile more.

But no. I just had to jump into this headlong because I couldn’t handle the guilt of having any more blood on my hands. And now look where I was.

Beneath the table I balled my hands into fists. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to show her more of what I was feeling inside. As much as I hated it when a host asserted too much control over me, I hated losing control of myself so much more.

I took a moment to consider what I was about to say, if only to keep the fire out of my voice.

“That’s a lot of fancy words just to say you still don’t trust me,” I spat.

The moment of consideration didn’t help. No point in hiding it anymore, I stood up from my seat with enough force to nearly tip my chair onto its back. Thankfully it just fell back on its legs, though it did land with a surprisingly loud thump, in spite of the carpet.

“You’re right,” she began. “I’m heeding your references’ advice and deciding that it’s best not to trust you.”

If not for my briefcase still being open and her holding onto my résumé, I probably would have walked out then. At that point it was better for me to get out before she could try to arrest me.

“If you’ve already decided, then let’s stop wasting each other’s time. Give me back my résumé and I’ll be on my God-damn way.”

As soon as I said that, I regretted it. It said a lot about me that the second I realized I wasn’t going to get what I want, I lost my temper, made demands of people who had no reason to listen to me, and tried to run away.

Too late to take it back, I held out my hand just like I did for my phone. Instead of handing me my résumé, Miss Rios just clasped her hands over it while shaking her head.

“Sit down, Mr. Meunier. Just because I don’t trust someone doesn’t mean I’m not willing to work with them.”

“Oh?” I asked, incredulous. “Wasn’t your whole speech before about not wanting to work with me because you can’t trust me?”

“More or less, yes. I guess I should rephrase my previous statement. Just because I don’t trust you as a person doesn’t mean I’m not willing to accept your help as a professional. If a man like Ian Mead is willing to reach out to you for help despite him so clearly despising you, then the least I can do is hear you out. Bravo, by the way. I should have thought it was too good to be true. Manipulating me so that I’d call him instead of the Chief of Police… that was a masterful play.”

Relief flooded through me. I smiled widely, but when I spoke, I let Remy shake my voice a bit with nervousness. “Why officer, I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about.”

To my surprise, she smiled back. Somehow I never realized until then that she only had one dimple on the left side of her face.

“Yes, well. No need to gloat. Your points been made.”

Her tone was light, but I dropped my smile and adopted a serious tone.

“Ian is wrong, for the record. Not about everything, but enough. Money? It’s never been a priority for me. Fame? In my line of work that’s actually an inconvenience.”

“Oh?” Miss Rios asked, adjusting her tone to match my own. “Then what is it that drives you, Mr. Meunier?”

I thought about lying through my teeth - using what I learned about her to appeal to her sensibilities - but she’d already demonstrated enough smarts to see through a few of my other ruses, and I was sure she was looking for more manipulations. If I told her the truth, however… no. That was completely off the table. I forsook that option the moment I introduced myself as a legally dead man and handed over that fake résumé.

Thankfully I was prepared for this.

Swallowing hard - and not entirely for show - I dug into my briefcase and retrieved a single, black folder, then slid it across the table to Miss Rios.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Pictures speak louder than words,” I replied, and left it at that.

She opened the folder, and to her credit, she didn’t even make a face. I knew what was in there already so I didn’t bother looking myself. It would have only made me want to vomit, anyway.

“Who is this?” she asked, practically hissing the words. “Where is this?”

As bad as it was to feel that way, I was happy to see the photograph had some affect on her.

“His name was Liam Meunier. And that? It’s our family home in New Orleans.”

At once, Miss Rios dropped the folder on the table, scattering five different photos of a corpse drenched in blood. Each had been taken at various angles and distances, and in one of them a blurry figure could be seen observing the scene from afar, his body only visible because of his slightly red sheen. He was impossibly thin and tall and barely resembled a human other than his shape. A ghost, in nearly every sense of the word.

She looked at me, and there was a metaphorical fire in her eyes that burned just as hot as the flame smoldering within me.

“You better start talking and making this make sense, Mr. Meunier, or-”

“-Or what?” I interrupted, letting some of that fire out with my breath. “If I had all the damn answers, I wouldn’t be coming to you for information. Would I?”

She had nothing to say to that.

“You wondered if I knew something you didn’t. Well here’s your answer,” I said, gesturing to the photographs. In response, she picked one up. It was a close up of a face. My face - or rather, Remy’s - with trails of dried blood beneath every orifice, other than the eyes, which looked like they’d been melted within the sockets.

The photographs were fake. Taken and altered by one of Emile’s friends from art school. Even so, they were undeniably accurate. I had watched Richard Gaines die over a hundred times and gathered more details about Specter’s victims from the witness testimonies I found online. It wasn’t easy or cheap to have made, but it was worth the time and effort and every damned penny I spent.

“Specter didn’t start his killing spree in Philadelphia,” I said. “Hell, he didn’t even start it in 2011. The bastard has been around for years and the PRT never took him seriously until one of his murders got broadcasted on live television. You wanted to know who my client is? Because it’s not whoever you assumed it to be. It’s me. For years I have been searching for him, preparing myself by seeking the monsters like Phantasm and Lullaby, just so I could be the one to catch him. To bring him justice and avenge my brother, who died for reasons I still don’t even understand. That is what drives me officer. Maybe it’s selfish, but I honestly couldn’t give a fuck less.”

I walked a thin line between truth and lies. It was the only path I could walk. It was the only way I’d be able to succeed, in the end. I knew it.

“So what do you say, Miss Rios? Are you going to share with me what you know? Or are you going to leave another victim’s brother high and dry?”

That whole time our eyes didn’t leave one another’s, not even when I stood up in the middle of my speech and nearly threw my seat on its back again. I was covered in sweat, not because I was nervous or hot, but because of the passion that swelled within me. Fists were clenched tightly at my side and my muscles were taut. Even wearing a suit - even wearing a body that wasn’t even mine - it was clear stopping Specter meant a lot to me.

That was one thing I certainly didn’t need to lie about.

In those big brown eyes of hers, I could see Miss Rios was seeing me, for the very first time.

“Alright, Mr. Meunier,” she said as she opened her laptop and turned the power on. A moment later, the computer’s desktop was projected on the smartscreen mounted on the wall. The desktop background was an amateur photo of a small town resting alongside a tropical beach. Her hometown, I guessed.

On the far right side of the desktop was a series of folders, each one labeled with a file number and a short title.

  1. Ungracious Host
  2. Bigot Brother
  3. Gilded Child
  4. Illegal Guardian
  5. X'd Convict



Miss Rios glanced up at me from the computer, then created a new folder. It took a long moment before she typed a name.

6\. Liam Meunier

“I’d give the file a more clever name,” she said with a short, sad laugh, “but that’s my partner’s shtick. This will have to do until he comes back.”

“It’s fine,” I said as I sat back down, unsure of how else I should react. “So. How are we doing this, then?”

“Calmly, I hope. You help me build a file for your brother, and I’ll let you look at what’s in the rest. After that? It depends on what you want to do. If you’re willing I can look into hiring you full time.”

I thought about it for a moment, but it was hardly a consideration. I already risked so much getting here and if they actually tried to hire me, they’d surely find out my whole backstory was a lie. Besides, my answer was determined long before I knew he was still alive.

I would need to find Specter on my own.


	5. Identification 1.5

I did it, I thought. I actually fucking did it!

As I walked down the brick hallway alone, I struggled to contain my enthusiasm. There was no one around to see me and no cameras for all I could tell, but I had to be careful. If I were to break character now and someone notice everything could fall apart.

But still. God must have been on my side for me to get this far. It was reassuring to know I had his support. Helped me stay focused on the mission; on doing the right thing, even if it may have been for the wrong reasons. It was a step up from what I was like before it happened, which brought me full circle to the now. I was getting better. Changing into a person that I could be proud of. That my parents may have been proud of. That my brother would have, if he was still around.

I fucking did it, I thought again. We did it, I clarified as I looked down at my phone to see if Emile left any messages. There were none, but I did finally see the time. A quarter until 7.

Fuck.

This took so much longer than I’d hoped. There was still so much I needed to do to prepare for tomorrow, and beneath the exhilaration of convincing Miss Rios to help my own investigation, there was only exhaustion. In my rush to get to Philly I slept only two or three hours. I was at the point that I could no longer ignore the fatigue, reminding me that I still needed to get a room for the night, which in turn reminded me that I still need to get money after giving everything I had away.

So much to do and so little time.

When I stepped into the lobby and looked over at the bar, I swear I could smell the liquor wafting off of the secretary. He was slouched over the bar, his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, and talking aimlessly to the bartender who appeared to be wiping the exact same whiskey glass from before.

The bartender looked up and noticed me, and the secretary noticed him and looked back. Before I knew it, I was being shouted at and waved over to have a drink. As amazing as a beer from the tap or a shot of tequila sounded right then, I had to fend off the temptation, along with the secretary’s obvious advances.

“It’s fine, beautiful. It’s Friday night! There’s no rush. Just one drink and a little bit of conversation, please. I just love your accent.”

I found myself smiling. Not I, really, but Remy. I felt a glimmer of interest spark in him and nearly stoked it, but I knew that one drink was a slippery slope for me. If I indulged now, whether it be for my sake or Remy’s, I just knew that I’d wake up in an unfamiliar place with a hangover so bad that I wouldn’t be remotely productive, tomorrow. Maybe if Emile was here to make sure I didn’t get too far gone...

“It breaks my heart to say this, but I really do need to go. Though it may be the end of the work week for you, my work begins tomorrow. I truly am sorry. Maybe next time?”

The secretary’s face drooped with disappointment, and I could feel a glimmer of it in Remy, too. I considered giving him my number but I really couldn’t deal with a distraction. Not before my investigation even truly began. Honestly it was best for me to put as much distance between this place and I, anyway. Though Remy felt it was safe to be there, I didn’t. Every moment spent was an opportunity for the PRT to unravel my backstory and decide to arrest me on the grounds of interfering with an official investigation.

“It was nice meeting you,” I said to the bartender. He nodded his head slightly in agreement, and I turned my attention to the secretary. “I’ll see you again,” I lied as I stretched out my hand for him to shake.

He took it, brought it to his mouth, and kissed the back. Remy swooned.

“Goodbye…” I trailed off to indicate he never told me his name.

“Charles,” he answered, still holding onto my hand and smiling.

I felt a little guilty as I tugged my hand away. “Goodbye Charles,” I said, returning his smile.

Desperately trying not to seem rude, I headed off toward the front door and placed my hand against the wall to make it slide open. Before exiting, I looked back at the bar to wave goodbye to Charles only to see him laughing with the bartender as he poured him a shot.

Over me already, it seemed.

A gust of wind brushed past me, whistling in my ears. Like a splash of cold water to my face it woke me up and reminded me I needed to get moving again. It was a bit dark out. The sun wasn’t quite past the horizon yet, but it did linger far enough below the skyline to drench the square in shadow. I wasn’t sure why but a sudden, intrusive thought that I was being watched surfaced, prompting me to look around and figure out the cause. The few people who were walking on the streets paid me no mind and none of the cars driving on the street were around long enough to see me for long. I glanced up and searched for one of Conveyance’s drones, but unless they had a stealth mode, I couldn’t find any.

Eager to get away, I adopted a brisk pace toward the nearest bus stop. As I did, I began to go over everything I learned about Specter’s victims in my head. It turns out there were half-as-many murders as I read online. Five total, excluding Liam, who I’d invented after realizing Specter was targeting guys with brothers.

Twin brothers, more often than not. It was one of the conclusions I reached on my own after learning about the Davison twins. Hearing that the PRT was on the same page was nice.

Still, he’s killed non-twins, too. One older brother and one younger. If he was only going after twins it wouldn’t have been too hard to figure out Specter’s next target and interfere, but doing the same thing for every pair of brothers in a city as big as Philadelphia? That just wasn’t feasible.

One thing the PRT and I weren’t on the same page about was what should be done. They believe they’ve asked the brothers of the victims all the necessary questions. That there is nothing more they can glean from interviewing witnesses. They were stuck because of that, more focused on trying to pinpoint his location, on arranging some kind of stake out or sting to catch him in the act, and though they didn’t say it, they were practically waiting for another murder to happen so they could narrow things down.

I, on the other hand, believed there was more to be learned. If Specter only planned on killing guys with brothers than surely he would have a larger body count. There was a reason he chose these five victims in particular, and I was determined to find out why.

At the bus stop, I sat on the bench and opened my briefcase to retrieve the notes I wrote from the meeting with Miss Rios. I would have preferred to have the PRT’s files on the thumb drive I brought with me, but I understood why Miss Rios didn’t allow it. I was grateful enough she let me access the files at all. Though it may not have been confidential information, it was sensitive.

They did represent lives brutally taken and others dramatically ruined by their loss, after all.

It sucked that I’d need to awaken some of those memories and dig into a few open wounds, but such was the nature of my mission. All I could do was just pray that it would be worth it, in the end.

Before I could delve into my notes, I heard a young woman approach the bus stop and looked up to see her leaning against the closest wall of the booth. I didn’t say anything to her, but I did scoot further to the edge so she’d have room. I could tell by the way her face sagged that she was exhausted so I figured she would prefer to sit. She just gave me a dismissive look, however, and draped her hair over her face so I couldn’t see her.

In a past life I might have said something rude. Instead I just shrugged and leaned back into the seat, turning my head away just in time to see the bus pull around the corner. It was far enough that I didn’t need to stand quite yet, but not so far that I could get too deep into my notes. I decided to put them away and look back up at the PRT HQ’s video montage.

A cape with skin like knitted twigs and hair made of prehensile vines was swinging from street lamps and handing bystanders exotic looking flowers each time she got near the ground. At the top of each arc the perspective changed to show her from another angle. Half the time I caught a glimpse of Conveyance’s drones where the perspective had just been. Made sense that he was the one who recorded these PR videos.

Just in case, I looked up at the sky again. There were no floating balls of blue light, but I did see a man on a balcony. He seemed inconspicuous enough as he smoked a cigarette and talked on his phone, but fuck, I swear he looked straight at me on four separate occasions.

As soon as the bus pulled up I wasted no time getting on.

There weren’t many seats empty, and those that were already had someone sitting alone. Exhausted and concerned with getting sucked into a conversation like I did with Lewis, I decided to stand at the back. From there I had a complete view of the passengers, including the young woman who’d been waiting with me outside. She decided to stand as well, though she chose a spot in the middle, directly next to the exit. Other than me, the only person who noticed was a man in a crimson raincoat. Even with his hood up, I could see a smirk on his face as he checked her out.

She was dressed modestly, but the man didn't seem to care. She was the only girl on the bus that remotely looked his age. The rest were either middle-aged or on the elderly side. He looked to be in his late twenties, though, while she looked like she just barely graduated High School.

Seeing it made me extremely uncomfortable, and yet I couldn’t bare to look away. Even if he wasn’t a Redcoat I would have taken interest. Or Remy would have, I suppose, but the semantics didn’t matter. Though my powers didn’t give me much of an advantage in direct conflict, I was still a cape. I could no longer afford to do nothing after seeing things like this.

As I watched to make sure the man stayed in his seat, I occasionally glanced at the screen at the front of the bus to keep track of the stops. It would take a while before I got to where I was heading. Under these circumstances I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

The evening went on. Passengers came and went in trickles and spurts. Every time the bus lurched to a stop, I hoped the young woman would leave, or the man in the crimson raincoat. Neither did. I watched time fly by on the clock next to the screen with growing concern. The young woman was too absorbed in her phone to see the way he was looking at her, and not one other person on the bus seemed to care that he was staring at her like a piece of meat rather than a person.

My stop was approaching. I had to ask myself whether I’d get off when I got there, or if I would stick around and get off behind her, just to make sure he didn’t follow her home. Besides two pairs of brass knuckles in my luggage bag and the briefcase by my side, I had nothing I could use to defend her, nor defend myself. I could use my power, but it wasn’t very offensive and far from discreet in the light.

When three more people in red coats stepped onto the bus and joined their friend, I decided I had no choice but to join the young woman in waiting near the door. The man in the crimson raincoat said something and nodded in her direction, prompting another guy to look and laugh. Once again, the group consisted of three males and a female, and the female had such a confident posture in comparison that I guessed she was in charge. I hoped that meant she’d quiet them, but even her glare towards the young woman seemed predatory.

Though I knew it wasn’t necessary, I decided to step around the girl and put myself between her and the Redcoats.

As I did, I refused to look at them. I had my phone out myself and sent a text to my friend Emile, thanking him for his help earlier. He didn’t respond, but he was likely busy. It didn’t really matter right now. All that mattered was that I was in their way.

I switched over to the web browser and waited for the page to reload. I’d forgotten that I was looking at the history of the PRT HQ until the article I’d read popped up on the screen. Reminded of Chromedome, I was tempted to search up videos of his tech. Tinker work always fascinated me.

Before starting to type I looked over my shoulder. I had meant to look at the screen but my eyes darted a bit too far right and accidently made eye contact with the one of the male Redcoats. Not the man who was ogling the girl, nor the one that looked and laughed after joining him. I blinked and readjusted my eyes swiftly, but I could still see him staring, gaze unwavering. And he wasn’t alone. All four Redcoats had their eyes fixated on me.

Barely in the city for twelve hours and already I was making enemies.

As I casually turned to look out the window, I saw my reflection. The only word I could use to describe it was fearless. It was a miracle my expression didn’t betray my worry. On some days I got the feeling my power hated me, either by giving my host too much leeway or by letting my deeper emotions show without my consent. Right then, my power did the exact opposite. I was in control, absolutely, and that bolstered my confidence.

Too bad it didn’t work in my favor, here. In the glass I could see the Redcoats look at one another, eventually settling on their leader, who after a long moment turned back toward me and nodded. I didn’t need instincts to tell me that wasn’t good for me. Nonetheless, my instincts were screaming.

At least when the young woman left the bus at the next stop they didn’t pursue her. I just wished that didn’t mean their next target was me.

Feigning ignorance, I searched up the cape Chromedome. A row of images popped up showing a titanic man in power armor, both his head and fists encased by domes that looked made of chrome - duh. In actuality I suspected they were forged of the same material that made up the PRT HQ’s exterior. Seeing how his helmet lit up to make a face of azure light, I wondered if Conveyance’s drones used the material as well. I knew from the magazines that Tinkers could learn from and repurpose each other’s tech, of which Dragon was the most capable. Considering both the Tinkers worked in this city it made sense for them to share resources.

Rather than click the images and get a closer look, I decided to open the article just below them, titled: Betrayal in the City of Brotherly Love - Chromedome killed and Treatise turned Traitor.

Unfortunately the bus arrived at my stop just as the article finished loading, forcing me to bury my curiosity along with my phone in my inner suit pocket.

I stepped off the bus and took my time choosing which direction to go. A group of young men in business suits stepped off right behind me. They knew exactly where they were going, though, and wasted no time in getting there. Not that far ahead of them music was blaring from buildings marked with neon signs. Restaurants, bars, and clubs. Those kinds of establishments were half the reason I decided to settle in this area.

The Redcoats left the bus, too, and made a point to loiter at the stop nearby me. In turn I made a point to yawn. If it wasn’t clear that I didn’t give a shit, they would definitely be aware, then. That or they’d just think I was tired, which made me an even easier target. Oh well.

Grabbing my luggage bag, I slowly began wheeling it away from the music, lights, and people. Towards and into the darkness, where I was most comfortable.

It would have been easy to blend in with the group of men in business suits. I could have even asked if they’d be okay with me joining them for drinks. Lord knew I wanted one. Needed one, even. But I didn’t have time to waste, let alone the cash. I wasn’t going to let anyone intimidate me into putting my mission at risk, either.

Especially not a group of wannabe thugs.

I turned into an alley, and they followed. I could hear their footsteps hasten behind me, but I didn’t care. My luggage bag hit something - a rock or a piece of debris, it didn’t matter - and I stumbled.

No, Remy stumbled.

As he fell down onto his knees, I stepped out of his back just in time to see one of the men rushing to catch him. There was a weapon in his hand - blunt, not bladed, which suggested they had no intention to kill me, just knock me unconscious - but it didn’t matter. He saw me a second too late, eyes going wide as I walked straight into him. The Redcoat’s momentum was too much for me to stop - not that I tried. Instead I continued forward, grabbed Remy by his shoulder, then leaned him back against my luggage bag before he could land on his face and ruin it.

It would have been a shame to lose that advantage.

“Jax?” the female Redcoat asked. Must have been my new host’s name, judging by the way his body reacted. Without even thinking, I spun to face her and spat at her feet. Her eyes and the eyes of the other two men widened. One of them froze while the other one stepped up to me.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“You’re what’s wrong with me, Rink. You and your bitch both. I’m sick and tired of always doing the grunt work. Why the fuck do I have to be the one to bludgeon every poor bastard we happen upon?”

I didn’t have to say a damn word. Just needed to ignite that glimmer of resentment within Jax and let things run its course.

“Is this really the fucking time?” the third man asked.

“No, it’s fine,” said the woman. “Go ahead. Say what’s on your mind.”

“I just fucking did, slut,” I spat again. Before the saliva could reach her, Rink got in the way and took it in the chest. How noble of him.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Rink asked again, his voice stressed to the point of cracking. “This is your job. You’re the strongest of us. You’re the one that’s always looking for a fight. Where the hell is this coming from?”

“You just fucking said it,” I said, though it was really Jax’s thoughts being set free without fear of repercussions. “I’m the strongest. I’m the one always looking for a fight. Are you honestly surprised?”

“Damn right I am,” Rink said. “I thought you were smart enough to know better.”

I couldn’t stop Jax from laughing even if I wanted to.

“And there you go, hitting the nail on the head again. I am smart enough to know better. That’s exactly why I’m doing this! Fuck this matriarchal bullshit! Out of all four of us, I’m the one who should be in charge. Just ask Ace. He agrees. Doesn’t he?” Jax said, looking toward the third man.

“Fuck you for dragging me into this now, but damn it, yes,” Ace said as he walked away from the other two Redcoats to join Jax in facing them down.

“You two are idiots for thinking this will work,” Rink said. “You can’t just upend the hierarchy like this.”

“Isn’t that the whole fucking point of this organization?” Jax asked.

“To say fuck the system? To rebel?” Ace finished.

“If that’s what you believe,” said the female, “then let’s take this to Scarlet and see what she thinks.”

Whoever Scarlet was, that idea shut Jax and Ace up real quick. I could still feel the glimmer of rebellion within him, however, and stoked it without hesitation.

“Fine,” he said, the word uttered deeply. Gravely serious. “You’re the one who can reach out to her, yeah? So go ahead. Give her a call. Bring her here. I’m not afraid. I couldn’t give a fuck less.” I regretted letting him say that, but it was honestly hard to predict what happened when I let a host get this much control. Considering how he’d reacted upon hearing her name, and how obvious his last two statements there had been lies, I had a feeling bringing Scarlet here was the last thing I wanted. If it came down to that, I’d need to find a way to get Remy and I out of here fast.

“I can’t do that,” the female said, thankfully. “But I can bring us to her. Finish your job here and I’ll do just that.”

“Fuck you,” I spat. “I’m done with these petty robberies. I didn’t join the Redcoats to become a thief. I joined to make a God-damned difference.”

Though I was pushing Jax in this particular direction he was surprisingly willing to help Remy to his feet. I felt some resistance as I dug into his pocket and retrieved a hundred dollar bill, but it wasn’t enough to stop me. “Here,” Jax said to Remy. In a way I was actually talking to myself, but that was semantics. As Jax I forced Remy to clench his hand around the bill, then stepped from one body to the other.

Fortunately Ace was still turned away and the other two were too far to see. Before entering the alley, I made sure it was too poorly lit for my Breaker state to be seen for this exact reason.

As Remy, I made sure Jax didn’t fall himself when he suddenly regained control of his body. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing my luggage bag and briefcase before running out the other end of the alley. I heard footsteps for a moment and thought he might run after me, but the man was too confused. As always, I left my host with nothing more than a blurry memory of what just happened, along with a heap of regret.

Still clenching the hundred dollar bill in my hand, I didn’t stop running to put it in my wallet until I rounded one corner, then another. As soon as I was confident they wouldn’t be able to find me in the event Jax and Ace decided to stop rebelling, I’d put the money away and retrieved my phone, then typed up the name of the hostel I would be staying at in the Steer app.

It wasn’t far. Once upon a time, the place was a popular party hostel, especially for european tourists. The original owner had spent a couple years backpacking across the continent and ended up bringing what he learned back with him. Unfortunately for the hostel it was no longer doing well after it’s ownership switched hands, but I was glad for it. I’d easily be able to afford staying the next few nights, as well as a few cheap meals, with the money I just made.

I was also grateful that I didn’t need to follow through with my original plan. After giving Lewis the last of my cash earlier that afternoon, I mused about waiting for a drunk man to access an ATM so I could possess him and withdraw some extra cash for me. Surely this way I’d earned a bit more karma. Though Jax seemed relatively decent, he was still a member of a gang that preyed on young women and men like that girl on the bus and me. As such, he practically deserved to get robbed himself.

Fifteen minutes passed before I reached the hostel. Though I could have easily got there sooner I decided to take my time. Best that I walk into the place with a steady heartbeat and not one drop of sweat on my face.

The entrance was quaint. If not for the two patio tables outside with a foldable sign that said RUN AWAY, I probably wouldn’t have known it was it.

The sign was technically supposed to say Runaway Hostel, but it seemed the owner either had a sense of humor or really didn’t want any guests.

Eager to find out, I walked up the steps and through the front door, only to find the lights were dimmed and the foyer was empty. Ahead of me there was a desk with a curtain behind it and smoke leaking out, visible only because of the flashes of light that came from the other side. Beside the desk there was a stairwell with a dog gate on the bottom, and to the right of that, there was a door with a padlock and a menu pasted on its window.

“Hello?” I called out. “Is anyone here?”

Rather than approach the desk, I walked up to the locked door and the menu. It was pretty minimalistic, but I hardly cared. So long as the place served eggs with hash I would be happy.

After catching a whiff of what was drifting from beyond the curtain, I prayed that it didn’t mean that kind of hash.

I called out again. There was still no answer, however. To my surprise, there wasn’t a bell on the desk. I yelled then and was only met with the sound of a TV’s volume being turned up louder. At that point I decided the owner wasn’t very humorous at all and ducked under the desk to let myself in.

“I know you’re in here,” I called out as I stepped into the smoky room. I waved at my face to clear my vision and saw a burly man with an unruly beard sunk into a couch. In his hands he held a shotgun, with its barrel aimed straight at me.

“Didn’t you read the sign?” he asked. “If you don’t want to get shot, I suggest you walk back outside and give it a look. From there it’s up to you what you do. If you want my advice, I’d suggest doing what it says.”

By his tone of voice and expression alone it seemed the man was utterly serious. I didn’t believe him for a second, though. If he was going to shoot every customer he got, why the hell would he leave the door open, let alone still be allowed to run the place?

Besides, I could see a hint of orange on the tip of the gun’s barrel. The contrast of light and shadow along with the smoke did a good job of obscuring it, but not good enough.

“No point,” I said, shaking my head and taking a step forward. “I know it’s fake,” I said when he looked at me inquisitively.

“Fuck. I told people not to leave any reviews. Who did it? Was it that mouthy one? I knew she’d be bad news.”

“Couldn’t tell you,” I said. “Haven’t seen any of your reviews. Just was looking for the cheapest place in town, and Wooster led me here.”

“Damn,” he said, dropping the gun on his lap and settling into his seat a bit deeper. “What gave it away, then?”

I offered him a fake laugh. “Common sense, really.”

He grunted. “Not a lot of that going around these days.”

“Indeed,” I said. When the only thing he moved was his eyes back toward his TV screen - which appeared to be playing that new weird show about bio experiments - I cleared my throat for his attention. “So? You going to check me in?”

Sighing, the man put the gun on the floor and swung his legs onto the couch so that he was lying down. “No need,” he said. “I’m too comfy, anyway. Just grab one of the keys inside the front desk and let yourself upstairs. You can pay me in the A.M. or whenever you decide to check out.”

“You sure?” I asked, more than a little skeptical. “What if I decide to just sleep for a couple hours and take off before you wake up?”

The man shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“And if I steal the keys? Give them to random people on the streets?”

“Whatever,” he said. “Locks can be changed.”

“Wow, okay. If you’re sure. Have a good night, Mr…”

“Just call me Jimmy.”

“Jimmy it is. I’m Remy.”

He didn’t answer. Only grunted again and nodded his head. Nothing left for me to say, I stepped past the curtain and opened the desk, chose key labeled number 7 for good luck, then grabbed my things and ascended the stairs. After climbing several flights I wished I chose the number 3 instead. Each floor had two rooms, it seemed, and the hostel had 10 total.

Each door I passed was decorated with a different countries flag. I recognized the French one from my studies after taking over Remy, but I had no idea what country my room was supposed to represent. Instead of a white vertical stripe at the center of the French flag, this one had yellow, and most of the decorations inside the room where strangely painted eggs and mugs with vampire faces on them.

I’d have looked it up, but now that a bed was so close it took all of my willpower not to collapse into it immediately. I barely had the energy to brush my teeth or put on pyjamas, let alone put my phone on the charger. When I laid down and pulled the blanket over me, I looked at my phone to check for messages.

In a blink of an eye, however, I was out like a light.

The next morning I woke up in a daze with a dozen missed calls from Emile.

Fuck me, I thought.

My dumbass accidently left my phone on silent.


	6. Identification 1.6

When I woke up that morning I didn’t do it willingly. The night before I failed to notice the window across the room - let alone that its blinds had been left open by the owner or the previous tenant - and I suffered for it. The sun’s heat on my face and its light filtered red through my eyelids startled me awake, my half-dreaming mind believing the place had somehow caught on fire. Instincts trumped thought when I tossed myself off my bed and onto my feet, eyes immediately blinded the moment I snapped them open to see what the fuck was going on.

Needless to say, it wasn’t the ideal way for me to start the day.

That’s when I checked my phone. When I felt my heart drop to the bottom of my stomach. Seeing all of my best friend’s missed calls and voice messages was like a splash of frigid water to my face. Numbing in comparison to the heat of the sun.

Somehow I was more terrified of what it meant than waking up to a room aflame.

I collapsed back into the bed, my cell phone unplugging from the charger as I fell. I didn’t bother checking the messages he left me first. Just slid the notification to the right so that it would automatically call him back. The timestamps said he reached out to me sometime between five and six A.M. If whatever he needed to say was important enough to wake me up that early, then it was equally important for me to not waste any time calling him back.

It was obvious Emile was drunk. Even without me there, there’s no way he’d miss a chance to go out drinking and dancing. But why call me between five and six? Nearly every club in Atlantic City was closed by four. While it wasn’t unusual for him to call friends after a night out, it was rare for him to call after five, much less call the same person more than once.

My heart sank even further when Emile’s phone went straight to voicemail.

Rather than listen to the long-winded instructions, I hit the pound key to skip right to the beep. “I swear to God you better be okay, asshat,” I hissed as I hung up, then almost lost my phone in the bed sheets as I fumbled to enter my password with one hand.

As soon as the home screen was displayed, I plunged into my inbox and discovered three separate voicemails, the first two left within twenty minutes of each other, the last left nearly an hour later.

Of them, the last was the longest. I skipped straight to it while thinking it would be the most informative.

I was so fucking wrong.

As soon as the voicemail began I had to rip the phone away from my ear because it was so damn loud. At first I thought he was blowing into the mic - either to clean it off or scare the ever-loving shit out of me - but then the sound was immediately cut off by a loud crash and I knew, deep down, that Emile wasn’t fucking around. Sure, he might play the occasional prank or make some dumb jokes when he’s drunk, but my friend wasn’t that much of an ass.

Hard as I tried, I couldn’t discern any particular sound after the crash. It was just an endless cacophony of noise. Even turning the phone on speaker didn’t help. It took fetching my headphones and plugging them to figure out anything useful, and to be honest, useful was a stretch of a word. All I could say for sure was that a road and a source of water was nearby, judging by the occasional roar of a car’s engine and an incessant babbling in the background, which could have belonged to a fountain or a tiny brook.

The message went on like that for a good fifteen minutes. I didn’t bother listening to the whole thing - not at first, at least - but I replayed the beginning and the end a couple of times and skipped back and forth around the middle before I finally said enough was enough and went back to the previous messages for context.

That time I played the earliest message first.

“What the hell,” Emile said. Even though his voice was slurred, he sounded like he was in good spirits. It might have been a relief if I didn’t already worked myself up with that last message of his. Instead, I just felt dread.

He took a second to burp, thankfully with his phone away from his face so I didn’t need to rip it away again, then continued to speak. “Hey! Faceless! Why aren’t you picking up? You better not be asleep already. The night is still young!”

Yeah. Emile was definitely wasted.

“Fuck you for leaving me, man. You missed something special tonight, you know. I wish you weren’t down there though I get why. Just sucks. Could have really used you and your pretty mug tonight. Not to mention those shadowy hands of yours or whatever. Fuck! Talking hurts so damned much. Almost makes me want to scream. Hmm,” he said, then took a deep breath. “Ahhh!” he bellowed suddenly. I heard an echo that might have suggested he was in a tunnel, but then again it could have just been the ringing in my ears.

I so desperately wished he was next to me so I could slap him right where it hurts.

“Fuck me,” Emile repeated, quieter that time. Apparently shouting at the top of his lungs made his voice hoarse. “God, that was loud,” he laughed. “Didn’t know I had it in me. I bet you could hear it all the way down there. Pennsylvania isn’t that far, after all. Wonder if you’d get your ass outta bed if I screamed again. Heh. Probably not a good idea, though. People are looking at me already and the last thing I need tonight is more negative attention. Ah well.”

Though he said that last statement so casually, I really didn’t like the sound of it.

“So, you wanna play hard to get? That’s fine. If you hear this at a reasonable hour, call me. If not I’ll try you again whenever I get my ass outta bed. Until then, adieu my friend.”

When he hung up I started playing the next message instantly. Cheery or not, there were way too many red flags for comfort. I would have been worried even if I hadn’t started listening to the last.

“Fuck, man,” the next message began. “You really missed something special. Yeah, I know what happened to your brother was fucked up and all, but fuck. I could have really used you tonight. I got in a fight. First one ever. Some idiot didn’t like it when I hit on his girl. Didn’t like it even more when I hit on him. Bastard hit me back. Without a warning, too, and from there it’s a blur. Fuck my face hurts! I’d forgotten how much worse it feels to talk. Anyway, man, I really wish you didn’t have to go. Together we could have beat that floppy prick. Hell, you could have had him beat himself,” he said with a laugh. “Wouldn’t that have been something?”

It wasn’t his first time he made that joke, and I doubt it would be the last. In spite of the many times I explained it would hurt me a lot more than it would hurt them, he still thought the idea of making a man punch himself was hilarious.

“Anyway, only reason I called again is because I was just reminded of that time we got lost in Manhattan. Do you remember? It was the night you threw up on the taxi driver and he kicked us out in the middle of the street. He didn’t even bother to pull over, just unlocked the doors, reached for his glove box, and told us to run. Fuck me, I thought he was going to kill us and I honestly I didn’t even care. I was laughing as I dragged you out of the taxi and kicked your ass into top gear. I swear, as soon as we rounded the corner, I was laughing so damn hard that I nearly threw up.”

It was sad, in a way, hearing my friend recount the story when I wasn’t even sure if he was currently okay. A small part of me wanted to smile, but most of me was just too damn concerned.

“Reason I’m bringing it up is because once again, I’m lost as fuck, except this time I can only blame myself. After what happened in Temple - it’s this new electronica place, in case you want to go when you get back - I needed some time alone to cool off, so I decided to take a walk. No taxis out here, though, and I have no clue how I’m supposed to get back to the main roads. So yeah. It really sucks not having you here. Even when blackout drunk, I can always rely on you to get us where we need to be. Figured I should tell you this in case I get killed or kidnapped or something,” he said, then burst out laughing.

“Fuck you,” I said, exasperated. “So not funny.”

As if he heard me, Emile calmed down and responded a second later. “I’m kidding, brother. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. That’s the least you deserve for ditching me, anyway. You should know better than to leave my irresponsible ass alone. Heh. I can’t believe I’m about to say this when you haven’t even been gone for two days yet, but fuck, man. I really do miss you. When you get back, you’re buying dinner and drinks for a whole month. Doesn’t matter who you have to take over to make it happen, but you owe me. Got it?”

It sounded like my friend was about to pause to take a breath. Instead, he screamed again.

“Fuc-!”

The message didn’t end immediately, but Emile’s voice was cut off by the sound of something rough brushing against the mic. His stubble, maybe, or the ground if he just fell. It was impossible for me to tell for sure. After that, the call was silent for a couple more seconds.

Then there was nothing.

I still had no clue what happened.

My stomach lurched. Roiled, even.

I think I’m going to be sick.

For a long moment I stared at my phone in disbelief. I wasn’t sure what to do. Had no idea what I could do. I avoided social media for obvious reasons and barely ever hung out with Emile’s friends from college. The only mutual acquaintance we had was his on-again, off-again booty call, and I wasn’t even sure he had her number saved in his phone. Not that I had a way to access it if he did, anyway.

I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but at that moment I was seriously considering chugging a pot. The problem wasn’t even that I was tired. The sun and Emile’s calls scared me awake so thoroughly that I doubted I could sleep if I'd taken a handful of melatonin. The problem was that my head felt like there was a fucking cloud inside it, obscuring my thoughts and weighing my skull down. Though I was no stranger to hangovers, this was something different, and so God-damned worse.

I’d read about Thinker headaches, but I knew this wasn’t that. Even though I could argue I was a Thinker of some sort with my ability to recognize the emotions of my hosts, they barely felt like glimmers of light to me - hence my using the term - and all I got when I peered at them was a memory of a time that I felt the same, or close enough for me to sympathize. It was far from informative, and seemingly just there to enable my primary ability.

Tangent aside, the point was I’d used it many times and never had to deal with this before.

Either way, I was in a funk and I needed to snap out of it. Getting out of bed wasn’t enough so I entered the shared bathroom, turned on the sink faucet, and shoved my head under the stream. The water was unbearably cold, but I didn’t care.

It didn’t help. Not really. But after that I managed to form the beginnings of a plan.

Pulling up the web browser on my phone, I searched up both the phone number for Emile’s apartment and the nearest police department. Neither of the calls lasted for more than two minutes, and neither of the men I talked to knew anything useful, but both parties were aware that Emile might be hurt, missing, or worse. Just in case they learned anything, I gave them my name and my number so they could let me know.

Hopefully I would hear back from them soon.

I felt sick. Not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. Returning to the bathroom, I turned on the shower and approached the mirror to look at my reflection. Or look at Remy’s, really, though it was my thoughts and emotions that contorted his features.

Mine, his, or ours, it didn’t really matter.

I looked in the mirror and saw lips pulled taut, not quite a frown, but definitely not a smile. Teeth were clenched, pronouncing the jawline, and the brow was furrowed with the eyebrows bent downward and inward, towards the nose. It was the kind of face I used to make when I watched Richard Gaines die and felt the bile surging up into my throat. The same kind of face I made before I learned to suppress all of the pain and the disgust and the remorse that constantly intermingled within me.

Whatever had happened, I was certain Emile wasn’t okay, and I knew, deep down, in the darkest pit of my heart, it was all my fucking fault.

Showering didn’t help. Changing into a fresh pair of clothes didn’t help. Pulling up directions to Bustleton didn’t help. Even figuring everything I needed for work that day and packing it into my drawstring gym sack didn’t help.

My stomach lurched again, this time accompanied by a growl.

It was a long shot, but I wondered if some food and maybe a conversation would get my mind off my friend.

Gym sack on my back and the rest of my belongings returned to my luggage bag, I locked the door and began to descend the stairs, careful to not let my luggage knock too loudly against the steps in case there was another guest in the hostel sleeping. I doubted it, honestly, but I knew I would be annoyed if my rest was being disturbed by some lazy asshole. It was better for me to put in the effort, anyway. Remy could use the work out.

Below me, the smell of bacon and the sound of classical music wafted through the air, along with a very pale smoke that grew thicker the further I got down the stairs. In the foyer, I found that it wasn’t coming from the back room, but the dining area. Door no longer locked, I walked in and glanced over a pair of long tables with two dozen seats placed on top of them, upside down. On the other side of the room the hostel owner, Jimmy, stood within a cafeteria style kitchen beyond an empty glass display where food options would normally be displayed and served. Other than a pair of gigantic red-and-black flannel boxers and a greasy apron with Alexandria’s costume superimposed over it, the man was essentially naked. Thick curls of black hair covered every-other inch of his chest and arms, and even facing the man head on, I could see his love handles peeking out from the sides of Alexandria’s abs.

I was surprised to find him in the kitchen, let alone dressed like that. On the other hand, he didn’t look surprised to see me at all, though his caterpillar eyebrows did rise when he looked down at my bags. “Decided not to leave without paying after all?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m not leaving,” I said as I placed my luggage bag and briefcase against the nearest wall, then approached the empty glass display. “I’m actually just hoping to switch rooms. Climbing four flights of stairs every time I want to get some rest is more than a little bit redundant, and besides, those vampire mugs keep looking at me and it kind of gives me the creeps.”

Jimmy’s beard parted to reveal a line of astonishingly white teeth. After last night I was surprised to see him smiling so easily. Was he just in a bad mood, then? Given the sign out front and what he told me then, I doubted it. But I wasn’t about to complain about him being friendly if it meant not thinking about Emile and how powerless I am to help him.

As I joined him at the counter, he pulled out a menu from a shelf and slid it across the top toward me.

“I can’t say I blame you. Romania is my least favorite room, too,” he said, finally making sense of the room’s flag and souvenirs. “Would you feel more at home if I gave you the key to France?”

“Ah,” I replied, grabbing the menu while shaking my head. “Recognize my accent, huh? I take it you’ve been?”

“No, actually. Furthest I’ve been from Philly is Washington D.C., and if it were up to me, I would have skipped that particular school trip.”

“Well I’ve been to all sorts of places up and down the east coast, so take it from me when I say that not every city is as boring as D.C.”

“Boring?” he said with a grunt. “More like too exciting.”

“Huh? I don’t follow."

“Do you remember that lunatic cape that assassinated the vice president?”

“Shit. You were there?”

“I mean, not really. But I was in the city, and people - including my teachers - lost their minds when it happened. Whole district was put on lock down, no one able to come or go until the feds and the PRT figured out what-the-hell happened and captured the people responsible. My class and I were interviewed half-a-dozen times by police and capes both. They thought it was suspicious the dates of our trip coincided with the assassination, and apparently there were students our age involved. I barely had any interest in traveling before that, but after? I was completely burned out. So no offense, but I’m good right where I am.”

“Damn,” I said, trying not to sound too dumbfounded. “Not that I’m ungrateful for the heroes, but capes really have a way of screwing the world up. I swear, everyone I meet nowadays has had a negative experience with them. Some on more than one occasion, even.”

Again, Jimmy grunted. It was hard to read but I took it as an affirmation. “You picked a good place to come, then. Philadelphia that is. Not this little shit-hole of a hostel. Though Philly’s got its fair share of crime, we have more heroes than most places and the villains are usually content to remain in their little domains. If you stick to the right places and keep your eyes open at all times, it’s pretty easy to avoid the few gangs that do wander around."

I thought about mentioning my run in with the Redcoats last night. Better to keep it to myself, however. Not worth risking him asking the wrong questions.

“Not that I’m bored with this conversation, but do you mind if I ordered? I was too busy and tired to get lunch or dinner yesterday and right now my stomach feels like a bottomless pit.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said, turning away to face the stove. I had to avert my eyes so that I wouldn’t lose my appetite by seeing his pimply, hairy back. “What’ll you have?”

“Three eggs over easy with a double serving of hash. Onion and garlic is fine. Hold the hair, though, please,” I said with a weak laugh.

“Haven’t heard that one before,” he grunted, spinning a dial on the stove. Clicking, one of the burners sparked, then burst with a woosh of flame. That was all I saw as I turned around and leaned my back against the counter. Partly so I could relax, but mostly because I needed to think.

I heard a clanging as Jimmy fetched a pan from a cupboard, then sizzling as he put what I presumed to be butter on top. While he broke eggs and dropped them in the pan, my silence must have drawn his attention toward me. “Trust me enough to let me cook your food unsupervised?” he asked.

“Without a doubt,” I said impassively. “I’m not feeling so great, honestly. Thinking about going outside to get some fresh air.”

“If it’s that big of a deal I can put on a shirt,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d be up so early. Only came in here to make myself a bite to eat.”

I couldn’t tell if he was being serious, but the softness of his tone made him sound genuine. I found myself wondering if this was even the same man who pointed a fake shotgun at me the night before.

“No, that’s not the problem. I didn’t plan on being up before 7 either. Woke up with a really bad headache that I just can’t shake, and I’ve got some personal stuff going on I’d rather not talk about.”

“That’s cool,” he said. “We’ve all got our demons.”

“Right now it’s not my demons that’s worrying me.”

A bit contradictory for me to elaborate that after saying I’d rather not talk about it, but if I was going to stay here for a while, it was better to get on his good side.

Besides, something told me the guy could relate.

“Yeah. I get that. If you want some fresh air you can sit on the patio. I’ll bring your food to you when I’m finished.”

“That would be great,” I said, looking back over my shoulder to find him looking over his shoulder, too. The problem with the man having such a large beard was that I couldn’t read his expression. I had to rely on his tone for the most part, which so far I'd taken as a good sign.

Waving, I tugged my gym bag tighter against my back, grabbed my briefcase, and left the room.

Despite the hour, it was a beautiful day. Not too cold and not a single cloud in sight. The headache I had made my eyes extra sensitive, however, so I chose to sit in the shade under a patio umbrella. It wasn’t open so I had to struggle to unwrap and unfold it myself, but I was thankful for the busy work. Every time I let my mind idle, my best friend found a way of creeping into my thoughts.

Funny how even with powers I still felt so God-damned powerless.

Once I was settled, I placed my briefcase on my lap, opened it up, and began to dig through it. Past the black folder with the doctored photos of Liam Meunier and a small, blue book with names, numbers and addresses scribbled within, I retrieved a notepad with a wrinkled leather cover and the initials R.E.M. stitched onto the top right corner. I carefully flicked the pages between my thumb and forefinger until I found the sheet labeled Ungracious Host.

  * Victim: Shawn Davis / Twin: James Davis
  * Date: April 8th, 2010 (First Known Victim)
  * Location: Runaway Hostel, 4703 Rising Sun Ave
  * Witnesses: Chloe Lowell, 13, current location unknown
  * Read article “Murder Investigation Uncovers Human Trafficking Ring” for context regarding Shawn Davis
  * Watch “Man in mourning punches reporter” for context regarding James
    * Uncooperative with police and PRT
    * Prone to lash out when asked about his brother, business, or Specter
    * No felonies but several misdemeanors, including assault and public intoxication
    * Loner. Isolated. Rarely leaves hostel. Pays for services to deliver food. Only seen leaving to attend therapy appointments. Has yet to settle on a single doctor. Often stops before the fourth sessions and stops going for months.



At the bottom of the page was a drawing of a caution sign. Handle with care, I told myself when I made my decision to stay here.

Though I could hear Jimmy’s heavy footfalls I didn’t bother putting the notes away until he stepped outside and looked at the back of the pad curiously. I'd made sure to sit facing the door and lean back as I read them so he wouldn't be able to see what was written.

“I never asked,” he said as he placed my food on the table in front of me, “but what brings you to Philly?”

“Work,” I said, smiling. It was crucial for him to think I was comfortable near him and the room where his brother was violently murdered, but equally crucial for me not to seem interested in the place. I doubted getting close to him would be easy, given his history, but if anyone could do it, it had to be me.

“Looks important,” he said. “Need me to leave you be?”

“Actually, I’m in a bit of a rush. Lot of things I need to do today. If you don’t mind coming back in 10 minutes I should be done and gone. Is it okay if I leave my dish and briefcase here for you to take inside?”

“Sure,” he said. His tone was neutral, but even beneath all that unruly facial hair, I could see the man frown.

“Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll see you later.”

Grunting, James Davis, brother of Shawn Davis, the Ungracious Host, walked back inside.


End file.
